


Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

by MorganOfTheFey



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (sort of), Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, Connor is the big spoon, Connor just wants to be a good boy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hank is a service top, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Fixation, Public Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Some angst, and Connor is the world's most powerful bottom, and Hank being a sad grumpy millennial about it, but still not a top lmao, in Clancy Brown's sex voice, it's just Connor trying to get Hank to finally date him, rating change!, zero plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-06-04 16:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganOfTheFey/pseuds/MorganOfTheFey
Summary: Connor has a three year seduction plan to make Hank love him back, and it starts with getting the lieutenant into his bed. Co-sleeping is scientifically proven to be beneficial to humans, and proximity is the number one factor in relationships forming. But when Connor starts having dreams thanks to the new updates he's beta-testing, it all gets a lot more complicated. And then one little wet dream speeds up his three year timeline dramatically ...**RATING CHANGE TO EXPLICIT BC CONNOR IS A HORNY BOI**





	1. Who is Hank to Disagree?

**Author's Note:**

> OK this is just tooth-rotting fluff for several chapters, then some heavy angst, and finally it all gets resolved in a tearful "I love you" confession. and just to let yall know, I don't give a FUCK about the precinct, the futuristic setting, or david cage. this is literally just about these two idiots living together and then getting together, and I cry-typed every chapter

Connor has a three year seduction plan to make Hank love him back. He's spent five hundred and thirty-six hours analyzing how humans fall in love, and now he has a plan to give him the best possible chance to entice Hank into reciprocating his feelings.

It is not going so well at this particular moment.

"What the fuck, Connor?"

Connor repeats himself. "Co-sleeping is scientifically proven to release oxytocin in humans, which causes--"

"So what, you wanna cuddle?" Hank demands.

He was being tested. The good lord baby jesus himself was _testing him_. Fucking ... cuddling. With Connor. No, don't think about it. Damn android can probably hear when his heartbeat picks up, and just because it's only a matter of time before he figures out what's going on, doesn't mean Hank needs to make it any easier for him.

Connor, goddamn him, smiles like Hank is a particularly bright student who caught onto the lesson plan earlier than expected. "That would be most efficient for increasing your oxytocin levels."

"You--" Hanks splutters. "You really wanna fucking cuddle?"

"Oxytocin lowers the risk of heart disease, boosts the immune system, and decreases feelings of anxiety and depression," Connor helpfully recites. "It can also decrease lower back pain."

"I don't need--"

"Are you at risk for any of those conditions, lieutenant?"

Connor's smile stays locks in place the way only an android can freeze an expression, but his eyes narrow slightly. Hank scowls back at him and refuses to give him the satisfaction of answering.

"You let Sumo sleep in the bed with you."

"Fucking christ, kid. Are you a puppy? Huh?"

Connor blinks. His research had included various kinks and fetishes, in case identifying and exploiting any of them would be helpful in his plan. Pet play wasn't one he had previously suspected Hank of having, but it is one of the more amenable options. Also, Sumo is not a puppy either. Perhaps Hank started the habit when the dog was a puppy? Connor gives that train of thought a lower processing priority in favor of testing out this possible weakness.

"Please Hank?"

He widens his eyes by 9.8% and drops his vocal registry to a softer pitch. He has not yet downloaded modules on seduction because he didn't think they would be necessary this early in The Plan, but he's "seen" several modules on seducing older men while linking with Tracis before. It isn't that difficult to reconstruct the desired effect, even from information that is second-hand, so to speak.

"Can we try it just tonight?" Connor takes Hank's blustering splutters as a sign that he doesn't have any good arguments against the Puppy Dog Eyes. Time for maximum exploitation. "Since the new updates that allow me to process more 'feelings,' my stasis state has been ... I believe that I am bored, or perhaps lonely, but I am now _aware_ that I'm sitting in a dark room doing nothing for hours and--"

"Fuck, all right. Jesus."

This is absolutely going to bite him in the ass. Trying to hide his feelings from an android that can monitor his heartbeat, sweat levels, and pupil dilation is a futile effort enough already without literally sleeping with the man. Hank just knows he's going to wake up tomorrow morning with his morning wood shoved right up against Connor's ass, and then what will he say?

Fucking stupid.

But hell, when has he ever been able to resist a self-destructive impulse?

The tightness in his chest hurts even worse when Connor smiles like his android little heart has just discovered the true meaning of Christmas. There's no way in hell he's going to be able to keep up with this charade much longer, but if he's going to fuck up the one friendship he has, at least maybe this way he'll get the memory of falling asleep next to Connor first. Something good to cling to when he finally realizes what a fat, useless old man Hank--

"Thank you for your cooperation, Hank," Connor says, still beaming up at him. "My calculations predict this increase in oxytocin will result in a better sleep quality by fifteen to twenty percent."

Hank only grunts in response. He knows exactly how this is really going to end.

*******

Hank steps out of the shower, glad that the bathroom mirror is too foggy for him to see anything. He already knows what he looks like, and it isn't goddamn pretty. Connor is waiting in the bedroom--in his bedroom--hell, maybe already _in the bed_ \--

He brushes his teeth to delay the inevitable for two more minutes. The little shit would probably give him another lecture on dental hygiene if he didn't. Last time he had tried to lie about that, the asshole had leaned his face close enough for Hank to count his freckles, then sniffed his breath while he was unfairly distracted. At least he didn't try to shove his tongue down his throat to analyze him.

Shit, no. Do not think about that. Not the twenty-six freckles, or the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, or about _anything at all_ going inside Connor's mouth.

Knock knock knock.

"Lieutenant?"

Hank spitefully holds his breath, even though he knows Connor can probably hear his heartbeat.

Knock knock knock.

"Lieutenant, please confirm that you are alive and conscious."

Hank sighs loudly. "You're worse than the goddamn dog, Connor. Can't fucking take a shit without you pawing at the door."

"Are you shitting? Your bowel movements typically take--"

Hank throws open the door and stabs his finger in Connor's face. "Do _not_ \--"

He sees the tiny upcurl of the android's lips a second too late. Goddammit, he had been joking.

"You have a terrible sense of humor," Hank grumbles, stepping back him.

"Is it a shitty one?"

"Do you wanna sleep on the couch?"

Hank practically throws himself down on the bed and deliberately situates himself without looking back so he doesn't see the pout that threat probably caused. A moment later, another body climbs in with him. He tries to act as natural as possible, but it's the first time anyone has actually slept with him since--

God, don't think about that either.

"Initiating big spoon protocol."

Hank does try to turn around at that, but Connor's hand is already clamping down on his shoulder. "Absolutely not."

"Initiating big spoon protocol."

"You don't even have a big sp--fuck you, I'm not saying that."

Connor scoots closer, his hand dropping down to Hank's waist instead. "Initiating big spoon protocol."

"That's not a real thing."

Hank can barely manage the mumble into his pillow. The android is warm, and his arm pulls Hank back against his chest, and it's just been so goddamn _long_. His scraggly hair is going to get in the poor kid's face. Hank is at least fifty pounds heavier than him anyway, and it's ridiculous for someone as old and big as him to be the little spoon. This is stupid, it's just so fucking--

"Big spoon protocol successfully initiated."

Connor's artificial breath ghosts across his ear, his head tucked up against the nape of Hank's neck. It's a good thing he doesn't actually need to breathe, because his hair is definitely in his face. Hank swallows hard and doesn't quite manage to suppress a shudder. Thankfully, Connor keeps his damn mouth shut for once and doesn't comment on it. Despite the lack of need, the android syncs his breathing to Hank's, nudging his knees forward until their legs tangle together.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Hank," Connor whispers.

Hank grunts in reply, then grits his teeth and tries not to do something unforgivably stupid, like cry.

*******

It takes longer than Connor predicted for Hank to fall asleep. That could be the awkwardness of a change in his usual sleep routine, however. Then again, Hank's "usual sleep routine" consists of drinking until he passes out. Connor knows nothing has changed in the last five minutes since he last did it, but the thought urges him to run another scan on his human.

Blood pressure, heartbeat, and breathing rate are all within safe levels.

Another advantage of co-sleeping, but one he didn't mention to the lieutenant while presenting his case. Connor can monitor his vitals much more accurately from right beside him than from inside the living room. Even if he chooses to go into stasis, their close proximity means any significant movement Hank makes will boot him back up again.

Eight hours is a very long time for a suicidal person to go unsupervised. Especially one with access to a gun. The anniversary no one at the precinct talked about isn't for another five months now, but Connor wants to take a proactive approach.

Observing Hank sleep is also significantly more interesting than Connor expected. The human doesn't stay entirely still, shifting frequently, but never quite enough to draw him out of Connor's arms. The android is easily able to readjust after each movement, and he's quickly consolidating a pattern so he won't have to devote as much processing power to following Hank's movements in the coming nights. In the meantime however, Connor appreciates the insights he's gaining.

Hank favors sleeping on his side, which brings Connor a small amount of relief. At least if he falls asleep drunk again when Connor isn't there to roll him over, he may naturally gravitate onto his side anyway.

On a more amusing note, he seems to prefer his side because whenever he accidentally rolls onto his back, he starts snoring loudly enough to disturb even his own sleep. Connor surmises if he were human, that snoring would be considerably more irritatable, but as it is, he simply nudges Hank back over onto his side with an indulgent smile. He can adjust his stasis settings not to respond to that particular cadence of noise, so it shouldn't disturb him.

Just in case, he does go ahead and set himself to "wake" again if the snoring stops. Hank doesn't suffer from sleep apnea, but he is old enough that breathing problems could occur.

Hank also mumbles. The sounds he makes aren't loud or coherent enough to be actual words, even to Connor's advanced analysis. He may have to build a specific program to let his stasis state differentiate between the snoring stopping because Hank has woken or stopped breathing, versus a short pause while Hank mutters nonsense into the pillow.

Once the lieutenant's breathing has remained steady for half an hour and Connor is absolutely certain he has entered the deepest state of REM sleep, he starts whispering back to Hank.

Connor tells him how important he is. How much his approval means, how he taught Connor about being human, how kind he is. That Sumo loves him and Connor loves him and many more people would love him too, if he would just let them in.

Suggestions heard while a human is in deep sleep may filter through into the unconscious mind. And Connor knows Hank would never stand to hear any of that while he's awake. So he contents himself with telling Hank now, hoping at least a small part of it will get through to him.


	2. Everybody's Looking for Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Instead, Hank crosses his arms and glares at him. "What did you do?"
> 
> That is the same tone he uses when Sumo has shit behind the couch. Connor has not shit behind the couch. He hasn't done anything other than make breakfast. His LED cycles faster. Why is Hank upset?"
> 
> In which Connor makes breakfast, accuses Hank of having an eating disorder, and continues to have a shitty sense of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warning:** as stated in the chapter summary, there's a quick mention of eating disorders and Connor asks Hank if he has one. Hank plays it off as a joke due to his low self-esteem, but it's not meant to be funny. I almost certainly won't have to get into how I personally think Hank has an unhealthy relationship with food, between his depression and self-image issues, so I guess I'll just say here that Connor has a moment of sincere worry about that. I'm just over-explaining it because of how often people make mean jokes about how fat / overweight people ~can't possibly~ have an ED, and I want to make it absolutely clear that's not what's going on

Hank wakes up, hard and grumpy and miserable like he always does. He's not hungover though for a change, he has both his shirt and his boxers on, and there doesn't seem to be any takeout spilled in bed with him. The chances of him getting his shit together enough to manage all of that at once are astronomically--

Connor.

Shit.

 _Shit_ , Connor.

Hank tries to force as much awareness into his brain as he can muster before noon, trying to figure out if anyone is laying in bed with him. He doesn't feel Connor pressed up against ... anywhere. There's definitely nothing touching his morning wood other than his own boxers. The relief that he actually didn't wake up humping the poor kid is quickly washed away by the realization that if Connor isn't in bed with him, then he's ...

Knock knock knock.

"Lieutenant?"

Ugh. Fuck. Hank sinks back down against the mattress. He can't go having fucking panic attacks every five seconds worrying if Connor is gone, or got his feelings hurt, or wandered into traffic. Especially because he knows damn well the android is a grown ... fuck. A grown android? Can adroids be adults? Oh Jesus, he's pondering fucking philosophy at--Hank spares a hateful glance at the clock on his nightstand that had simply appeared one day, the same day Connor coincidentally received his first paycheck.

Yeah, he's pondering philosophy at 7:57 in the goddamn morning.

Knock knock knock.

“Hank, are you awake? You stopped snoring."

Hank groans into his pillow.

"I made you breakfast."

Breakfast. The word bounces around in Hank's mind for several seconds as some sort of strange, abstract concept. Connor slept in his bed and now it's morning and he made breakfast. That is not a logical sequence of events. Hank isn't the sort of person to even do a morning after, and he sure as hell isn't the sort of person anyone makes breakfast for. They didn't even fuck, for Christ's sake.

"And coffee."

OK sure, sometimes Connor has cooked before. Usually after a lot of bitching about his health and cholesterol intake and nutritional needs. And that had always been dinner. Which, all right, fuck. "Connor cooks me dinner sometimes" doesn't really sound any less domestic than making breakfast.

Shit, how long has he been wading straight into the deep end?

"I know you're not asleep again. I have analyzed your--"

"Yeah, I'm awake!" Hank drags himself out of bed. "Just lemme piss first, goddamn."

"You have five minutes."

Hank stares at the closed door. "Or what? You'll come hold it for me?"

"I'll let Sumo in."

The mention of the dog's name is followed immediately by a deep boof and then scratches at the door with an impatient whine. Hank sighs. He can't get anything done in the tiny bathroom between his fat ass and Sumo's, especially since the damn dog loves to flop down right in the fucking middle of the floor, so Hank practically has to stand on his damn tiptoes to get in front of the sink.

"All right, all right."

*******

It may be a little soon to call this phase of his plan a success after just one night, but Connor thinks it's gone very well. Hank only put up a minimal protest against the implementation of co-sleeping in the first place, and now he seems to be amenable to the introduction of the next phase.

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and Hank needs to eat better anyway.

Sumo announces that Hank has emerged from his bedroom with an excited bark, followed by the happy little huffs he makes when someone pets him just right. Connor smiles down at the table as he finishes setting Hank's spot. This will be a good morning.

"All right, what the fuck is all this?"

Connor's LED cycles yellow. A background portion of his processing center pulls up information on the phenomenon of "jinxing." Connor irritably shuts it down.

"I made breakfast?"

Hmm. That was supposed to be a statement. The same deviant code that allows him to feel emotions often also messes with the way he intends to portray himself. Now he sounds tentative and nervous, when he wants to impress Hank with the cooking skills he has managed to develop, despite such functions not being a part of his original purpose.

Instead, Hank crosses his arms and glares at him. "What did you do?"

That is the same tone he uses when Sumo has shit behind the couch. Connor has not shit behind the couch. He hasn't done anything other than make breakfast. His LED cycles faster. Why is Hank upset? He doubts the human can tell the bacon on his plate is really turkey bacon from this distance. The coffee next to it isn't spiked the way he prefers, but Connor also hasn't hidden any of his liqueur.

Connor tries again to make it a statement. "I made breakfast."

Hank's grumpy demeanor seems to crack a little. "Yeah. And you're not trying to make up for breaking anything?"

"Oh." That's why he's upset. "No."

His eyes narrow. "Did you dump my beer?"

Connor sighs. "No."

"My scotch?"

"No."

"My whiskey?"

"No, Hank."

"My--"

"Your bourbon is safe too. I made _breakfast_. Sit."

Sumo recognizes the command and trots over to Connor to sit, then looks up expectantly for the treat he rightfully deserves.

"Do you want a bacon treat?" Connor asks him.

Sumo's ears perk up.

"Yes, you get a bacon treat because you sat. Maybe if _someone else_ can sit, they can have a bacon treat too."

Hank takes a seat with several swears grumbled under his breath that Connor can hear perfectly fine but chooses to ignore.

"So why are you making me breakfast?"

Connor sighs. This is why humans sometimes hit their heads against hard surfaces, despite the possibility of injury.

"I wanted to do something nice for you," he answers.

Hank looks at him like he just said _I put 200 mg of arsenic in your coffee, it will taste delicious!_

Connor folds his own arms back at him. "I can't do something nice?"

Hank finally drops his gaze and deigns to try a bite of toast. It is doubtful he'll notice the butter is coconut butter. "S'weird."

"You're nice to me. You let me live in your house, rent--"

"Hey, no." Hank immediately puts the toast back down. "Hell no, you don't owe me anything."

Connor considers which surface inside the house he should bang his head against. He knew Hank had self-esteem issues, but if the man can't even eat breakfast--what if he stops eating? Eating disorders affect nearly ten million males in the US at some point in their lives and is typically co-morbid with depression and substance abuse. Mid-life eating disorders can be triggered by divorce, loss of a loved one, natural signs of aging, retirement--

"--not treating you like some sort of maidbot that--"

Connor takes a seat across from Hank and makes steady, affirming eye contact. "Hank, do you have an eating disorder?"

Hank stutters so hard he seems to be going through the human version of a red LED. Connor scans him again. His blood pressure and heart rate are both rising at a rate of--

"No, I don't have a fucking--" Hank rubs his hand across his face and takes a deep breath. "Connor."

"Yes, Lieutenant?" That earns him a glare so fierce, he sheepishly amends, "Yes, Hank?"

"Why did you make me breakfast?"

"I enjoy doing things that improve your quality of life," Connor answers.

Hank grimaces and starts to reply, but Connor has already heard enough of his self-deprecation and misguided belief that he might somehow be taking advantage of Connor by opening up his home and life.

"I am allowed to enjoy things, Hank," he says. "Regardless of whether or not you think I should be enjoying them. I also have several other motivations for cooking you breakfast, and yes, one of them is improving your terrible diet."

Hank mumbles about it being none of his fucking business, but his heart rate begins to slow. Now he's just being stubborn and cranky, not actually upset. Connor is very used to a stubborn and cranky Hank. He had hoped to inform his partner of a small part of his plans--without revealing the larger picture, of course--when Hank was in a better mood, but this might be the best he's going to get.

"Cyberlife has asked me to test an update they're working on."

Hank scowls at their mention. "Did you tell them to fuck off?"

"No, but RK900 did," Connor replies. "Or at least, he refused the update. Allegedly, they've transitioned to working on maintenance, repair, and quality of life updates to assist androids transitioning to a sentient experience."

Hank groans and waves his hand. "Please don't talk like one of their fucking propaganda ads."

"Please eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

More grumbling, but Hank does do as he's told. His face doesn't register any signs of dislike after scooping in a mouthful of eggs and bacon, so Connor assumes his cooking was a success, despite this being his first try at breakfast foods. Hank pauses, frozen hunched over his food like an animal that just realized it's being watched. Connor realizes he is in fact staring at Hank and also smiling ... "dopily" might be the most accurate term for it.

Connor ducks his head. "My apologies for staring. I am simply glad you like it."

"Uh, yeah." Hank swallows and clears his throat. "You did real good, kid."

Connor has to tamp down on an even wider smile. That is much harder to do now that he's deviant. Before, it had required effort to mimic human facial expressions. Now his face seems to be doing something at all times, independent of his own directives.

"The update would allow me to eat and drink as well."

"No shit?"

"Not in a human way. I would store processed food in a newly installed bio-component that would break down and process any organic components that could be integrated into my system, but the unused material would have to be dumped within a timely fashion."

Hank just stares at him.

"So, some shit," Connor surmises.

This time Hank is the one who looks away and tries to fight back a smile. Connor is very proud of his developing sense of humor, and that was funny, whether he wants to admit it or not.

"What's that got to do with making me breakfast," Hank asks.

"The update should also enable me to _taste_ food, rather than simply identify the individual ingredients," he says.

Hank thinks that over for a few seconds before realization dawns on his face. "I'm your damn lab rat!"

"I am glad my first attempt at breakfast has gone well," Connor says mildly. "I would dislike to discover that I'm a bad cook with my own mouth."

That gets much, much more grumbling, but now Hank actually begins to eat with his usual gusto. The human just refuses to accept any genuine kindness. Perhaps Connor should start thinking of "ulterior motives" to have for the other life improvements he has in store for him.

"The update will not be available for another month, and I have many more recipes I would like to try out."

Hank grunts and shoots him a baleful glare over another mouthful of eggs. Connor smiles happily back at him.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Hank."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, holding a gun to David Cage's head: say they're happy and in love!!
> 
> David Cage, tied to a chair: *spits blood at me* the Machine endi--
> 
> me: *pistol whips him and begins to sob as the gun trembles* SAY IT YOU COWARD


	3. Waking Up Is Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor tries out sleeping for the first time and discovers first hand how much Monday mornings suck. Luckily, Hank and Sumo are there to make it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm love that sweet sweet domestic fluff in the morning ...

Hank brushes his teeth as slowly as he possibly can. He'd asked the kid if he really wanted all these updates, if he really wanted to go first, if he really wanted--Connor assured him he did. With big brown eyes looking up at him as he said _I want to experience everything I can ... with you, Hank._

Jesus kill him now. Lord knows he deserves it for all the thoughts he's been having about his partner. Not that he can help it, sleeping with the other man snuggled up against him every fucking night.

Hank spits in the sink and splashes cold water on his face. It really doesn't help. He already took a cold shower, and that hasn't helped either. But this is Connor's first night with the newest upgrade that lets him sleep. Or something like it, at least. Hank tried to pay attention, he really did, but all that fucking android jargon just went right over his head. Most he got was that the "sleeping" is mostly just a cosmetic simulation to make Connor's stasis state look more natural.

Knock knock knock.

"Lieu--Hank?"

Hank sighs and scrubs at his face one last time. A quick glance in the mirror confirms it ain't getting any prettier. But he needs to put his depressing bullshit aside and be supportive for Connor. It's just another three weeks until the big food eating upgrade, and then--

Well, either they'll come out with another new, shiny upgrade that Connor will have to wait around for, or he'll finally leave him, once he doesn't have any other reason to--

Knock knock knock.

"Hank, I'm tired."

Hank leaves the bathroom and does his best to glare down at the android. "You are not."

"My processors--"

"All right, bed."

He makes shooing motions to herd Connor into the bed without listening to any more android jargon, then takes a deep breath to steel himself and climbs in after him.

"You seem more nervous than I am," Connor says with the sort of smile that means he's teasing.

"Just don't want this to fuck something up," Hank mutters.

He's still convinced this co-sleeping bullshit will be what ends ... whatever this is he has with Connor, but the thought of something going wrong with the update and Connor just--not waking back up again. Fuck, that's so much worse.

"I'm not going to die, Hank," Connor says. "I'm just going to sleep."

Hank glares at him until his LED starts spinning yellow and he makes the connection between sleep and metaphors for death.

"Oh." Connor looks up at him shyly. "Would you like to keep watch over my sleep, then?"

"Damn straight," Hank says gruffly. "And you can't stop me."

Connor smiles up at him so sweetly, he feels like he's going to have a heart attack right this moment. Just another old man found dead in his bed with an android. Gavin, eat your heart out. Ugh, no, don't think of that asshole right now. Well. Actually. That is a pretty good boner-stopper. Detective Gavin Reed, natural boner-be-gone.

In fact, Hank "The Goddamn Idiot" Anderson is so busy thinking about his least favorite coworker that he nearly misses it when Connor leans up and kisses his cheek.

"Thank you, Hank. You can be the big spoon tonight."

Then he promptly rolls over to present his back, pert little ass wiggling for just a split second while he settles down, and oh Jesus. Gavin Reed in a thong. Gavin Reed calling him daddy. Gavin Reed and RK--wait no, too far, don't wanna puke down the back of the kid's neck.

Get your shit together, you can do this.

Hank slides forward like he's slowly putting his hand in a bear trap. Connor makes a happy little hum when Hank presses closer, which _really_ does not help the situation. Hank at least knows enough to make sure he's scooted up slightly higher on the bed so the android's soft brown hair doesn't get in his face, and hopefully that will keep his hips away from the kid's ass too.

Then Connor reaches back, grabs his arm, and wraps it around him.

"Con ..." Hank barely manages to wheeze out.

"I feel safer like this."

Hank lets his face drop forward to press his forehead against the back of Connor's head. He just knows that deviant little shit has downloaded some sort of Seduce Older Men module, and it's going to be the goddamn death of him.

He doesn't remove his arm.

*******

Connor wakes up to the noise of an alarm. His systems also reboot more slowly than usual, as evidenced by his stasis state lasting until eight in the morning. Every other time he's slept with Hank, he has carefully removed himself from the bed by seven or earlier to walk Sumo, tidy up, and cook breakfast. But this time--

BEEP BEEP BEEP

His visual processor hasn't booted up yet, and his fine motor skills seem to be lagging too as he slaps uselessly at the bed instead of the nightstand.

"Haaank, make it stop."

The horrible beeping noise blessedly stops, and Connor sinks back down into the comfort of his pillow. In addition to tweaks make to his stasis state, his sensory receptors have also been given an upgrade as well. The technicians at Cyberlife said he would have to install small upgrades over the course of the month in order to integrate the much more complex sensory receptors pleasure bots come equipped with in order to avoid overloading his processor.

The sheets feel very nice. It's a good thing he hasn't had a penis attachment installed yet, or he might be in a similar state to Hank, who keeps a careful distance between the two of them now that he's shut off the alarm. The distance is unnecessary. Connor knows what a "morning wood" is and that they are typical to human cisgender males. It would be just fine if Hank wanted to cuddle more ...

Connor suppresses a sigh with his pillow. "Have mornings always been this unpleasant?"

Hank chuckles. "Yeah, kid."

"I thought the alarm clock would be a nice gift to help you be more productive."

That earns him a loud guffaw. At least Hank is laughing about it. That alarm is very annoying from Connor's new perspective, yet Hank had put up with its addition with only mild grumbling. Connor is seriously contemplating throwing it away.

"You uh, sleep well?"

Connor turns his head enough to peek up at Hank over the pillow. His systems are all finally active, but he swears his thirium pump misses a beat when he sees his partner. Which is illogical, because Hank doesn't look any different. Connor has fondly observed him many times after exiting stasis before getting a start to his day. But somehow, the sight seems extra special this morning.

"I dreamed of you."

Hank blushes all the way down to his neck, quickly turning his head so some of his loose hair drops across his face. Human red LED. Connor hopes he looks half as endearing when he gets that flustered. He suspects his facial muscles freeze entirely and he stares blankly, which is probably "creepy" to humans. Hank looks much better.

"Why the hell would you do that?" Hank finally manages to ask.

Connor's answer gets caught in a yawn. He'd known the upgrade came with several new human mimicry simulations, but he's surprised at how real the motion feels, despite being entirely unnecessary for him. Hopefully his facial muscles cooperated and nothing glitched. Unfortunately, his pause gives time for Hank to, as the millennials call it, get back on his bullshit.

"Was it a nightmare?"

"It was a _good dream_ , Hank."

Connor sits up and Hank scrambles back. This could be a metaphor, but Connor was programmed to be persistent. 

"I would like to sit up, but perhaps not get out of bed so early," he says. "If you don't mind staying with me a little longer?"

Hank still looks a bit like a trapped animal, but he nods. Connor rewards him with an encouraging smile.

"We can sit back against the headboard."

That seems to put Hank even more at ease. Sitting next to each other does not push against the previously established parameters of their relationship. They frequently sit on the couch next to each other to watch TV. Hank frequently falls asleep like that, at least until Connor starts the co-sleeping initiative. The lieutenant's lower back should be feeling much better this past week and a half, regardless of his increased oxytocin production.

Hank even gives into the moment enough to sling his arm around Connor's shoulders. It would be better if he could sit in his lap, but this is good too. Maybe smarter, since his upgraded sensory receptors are already sending him dozens of new messages about the sensation from the half-hug alone. There does in fact seem to be some sort of difference between being able to calculate the weight of Hank's arm and the degree of his body temperature, versus being able to actually _feel_ the warmth and comfort it provides.

"Was Sumo in the dream?"

Connor knows that's a deflection from Hank's own part in the dream, but he also knows how to pick his battles. "Yes. So was Captain Fowler and the witness we spoke to on Monday."

"Huh. Good dream though?"

"It ... may not be like what you experience," Connor admits. "My stasis state has not undergone any fundamental changes. It is still a process of letting my primary functions rest while reviewing what I recorded during the day. The new upgrade allows more systems to safely shut down, and ... there are more feelings."

"Feelings?" Hank asks dubiously.

Connor nods. "I feel it more when my systems shut down. It is more, restful, I think. And there were feelings during my playbacks as well. Some memories were not exact. I know you are not that tall."

Hank is suddenly afflicted with a coughing fit. "You--shit kid, you dream of me like some sort of Fabio?"

Connor has to run an internet search to understand that reference, but once he sees the results, he grins. "You do have the hair for it."

For once, Hank laughs at the teasing without making a self-deprecating comment. Hank's laughter is one of Connor's favorite sounds, but it's interrupted by a _boof_ and scratching at the door. To be fair, Sumo is Connor's second favorite person, and it seems the dog hasn't missed that Connor is late for their daily walk.

"I'll get it," Connor volunteers. "I usually walk him by now."

To his surprise, Hank grabs his hand as he gets up.

"Hey, uh," Hank can't quite seem to make eye contact, and his face is red again. "Thanks. For taking care of two old dogs like us."

Connor smiles so wide, his face almost hurts. Perhaps the next sensor upgrade will let him feel that. For now, just Hank's fingers wrapped around his wrist, thumb unconsciously rubbing over his skin, is nearly overwhelming. Hank manages to look up at him, and Connor wants so badly to kiss him. Maybe just on the cheek again, like last night ...

_A-woo-woo!!_

Oh no. That's the sound Sumo makes when he needs to--

Connor dashes to the bedroom door, throwing it open just in time to make direct eye contact with Sumo as he shits in the hallway. Hank comes up behind him and groans. Sumo finishes his business, then slinks off into the living room like he has no idea who put that poop there, no sir, officer.

"So much for a good morning," Hank grumbles.

Connor grabs his hand and squeezes. It's messy and nowhere near perfect, but he's happy. Then he grins and turns to Hank.

"Now do you need to go potty too, mister?"

"Oh, fuck off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> banter is a sign of true love. also, co-ownership of a dog


	4. Not Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where the angst hits y'all. Connor has a real bad dream, and Hank has to snuggle him better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for a brief mention of daddy kink at the very, very start, and what probably qualifies as sexual assault, even though it ~technically~ didn't happen to Connor. also for sensory and taste trauma, in connection to the sexual assault
> 
> let me know if I need to add more warnings for this!

"Now be a good boy for daddy," the not-Hank orders.

Connor's eyes snap open, but his visual processors lag behind. It's all black. He should be seeing. Where is he? The memory he had been reviewing--no, not a memory. Hank has never said that to him. Has he? That scene was recorded in his mind. He has not been infected by a virus. Why would he play a memory that does not exist?

And why can't he move?

Connor's pump sends more thirium flooding through him in response to his panicked attempts to pull every system online at once, while his internal fans kick into a loud whirr. That wasn't Hank. It was his face, but the voice was wrong. Hank has never said that to him.

"Mmph, Con?"

That is Hank's voice. Beside him. Body temperature: 98.6 degrees. Heart rate: 65 bpm. Lung capacity: 6 liters. Connor still cannot move. Why can he catalogue all of this useless information but not identify the false memory?

It is false.

"Shit, kid, you all right?"

It is it is it is.

"Hey! Connor? _Fuck_ , wake up, Connor!"

Body temperature: 98.7 degrees. Heart rate: 80 bpm. Lung ca--

Connor breaks free of the strange paralysis holding him hostage as his visual processors finally restart. That is Hank's face above him. The man in the memory also had Hank's face, but it didn't look so worried. Hank's bpm has risen to 87 and his cheeks are splotched with red.

"Con--"

"Hank?"

"Yeah." Hank's adams apple bobs as he swallows and then nods. "I'm here. S'all right."

He isn't touching him. Hank's hand hovers over his face, then down over his chest, but he doesn't touch him. Connor can't stand it. He surges forward, practically tackling the human as he rolls them over to the side so he's on top. Hank's body is warm and soft beneath him, and his arms finally come up to wrap around him. One hand touches his head hesitantly. He doesn't yank his hair. Hank wouldn't do that to him. The not-Hank in the not-memory wasn't real.

"It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't--"

"Hey, hey, hey. Shhh. It's all right, it was just a bad dream."

A ... bad dream? When he agreed to the update, Connor hadn't expected his stasis state to be altered enough to enable him to dream at all, much less have ...

"A nightmare?"

Hank sighs. "Yeah, kid. You had a nightmare."

Connor shudders and presses his face more firmly into the crook of Hank's neck. He had known what a nightmare was, of course. But as he's repeatedly discovered since going deviant, there is a vast difference between knowing a dictionary definition and _feeling_ something.

"It was a memory," he whispers against Hank's skin. "But not mine. Not real. Not. Real."

"Well, shit." Hank starts rubbing one hand up and down Connor's back while the other still gently cups the back of his head. "How the fuck did you get someone else's memory?"

Oh. Now that Hank said it out loud, the answer is exceedingly obvious. If it's not his memory, it must come from someone else. There are only so many other androids that Connor has linked with. That memory was very clearly a sexual situation, which narrows down the search.

"The Traci," he mumbles. "From the Eden case. I linked with her and saw part of her recent session. At the time, it was not so ..."

He searches for a word big enough to describe how he's feeling and ends up just shuddering again.

"Well. Shit."

Connor inhales deeply. Hank smells like he always does--sweaty, male, a little bit like alcohol. There hadn't been any smells in the twisted simulation. Connor licks Hank's neck, because there had been taste. Hank does not taste like that man. He still tastes like Hank.

"Uh. Did that ... help?" Hank asks.

Connor nods. "I was the Traci. You don't taste like him."

Hank clutches him closer as he realizes what that means. He smothers a curse word in Connor's hair, then places a quick kiss against his LED, seemingly on instinct.

"I've got you. You're here. None of that shit was real. I've got you."

In literally any other situation, so much cuddling and affection from Hank would have been wonderful. Now, all Connor can do is shiver in his arms and let out an exhausted yawn. Then he licks Hank's neck again, because it does help. For once, Hank doesn't complain about him licking things.

"You want me to call Sumo in here?" Hank asks quietly. "He's real good at helping with nightmares."

Connor hadn't even considered that, but he nods eagerly. With another warm body, he could lay in between the two of them, and then he would be safe.

That is a totally illogical thought. If anyone were to break in and attack them, Connor himself would be best equipped to fend off the hypothetical attacker. But deviant feelings don't seem to care for logic, and something inside him continues to insist he needs Hank and Sumo to truly be safe.

"Gotta let me up so I can open the door."

Releasing Hank is very, very difficult. Hank seems to anticipate that though, and quickly gives Connor his pillow in exchange. Clutching that isn't nearly as satisfying, but at least the fabric smells like him. Connor buries his face in the pillow and holds very still. It's only for a moment.

It feels like forever.

Then a heavy weight falls on top of him, shortly followed by a cold nose snuffling his LED and then licking it insistently until Connor turns his head enough for Sumo to get to his face. He can't help but smile under the onslaught of licking. Sumo wags his tail hard enough his whole butt shakes, and Connor obligingly pets across as much of him as he can reach. The bed dips again as Hank sits down on the other side. Connor immediately turns his head to press his face against the outside of his partner's thigh. He needs to be touching Hank again.

"I can uh, take the couch if you want."

Connor immediately sits up. "What? Why?"

Hank blinks at him. "Well, uh ... after, you know. If you don't want--you don't have to--shit, Connor. You don't wanna sleep with an old man after that."

"I want to sleep with you," Connor insists. "And Sumo."

Hank studies the sheets. "I don't think that's a good idea, kid."

"What if I have another nightmare?"

"Told you, Sumo's good at that shit."

Connor glares at him. "Will Sumo talk me through what happened?"

"Kid ..."

"Will Sumo pet _my_ hair?"

"Now, just--"

"Will Sumo--" Connor's voice suddenly shuts off. His throat is too tight for words. It feels like he's suffocating. " _Hank!_ "

Hank immediately slides into bed next to him, and this time he doesn't protest when Connor pulls him closer. Sumo flops down on his other side, heavy head resting on top of his shoulder blades. Connor feels a lot better, even as he realizes he's crying down the front of Hank's shirt. He didn't realize he could do that. It's horrible and intensely relieving at the same time.

"I got you. Don't--fuck, Connor, please don't--"

Hank sounds close to crying himself. Connor tries to calm himself down. It helps when he remembers he doesn't actually need to breathe, but that makes Hank tense up and clutch at his arm. Connor gives his jaw a messy peck and grabs his hand to squeeze it reassuringly. Hank seems to get the message, but he doesn't relax for another few moments until it becomes apparent Connor is calming down too.

"I'm sorry," Connor whispers after several minutes. "Sometimes I do, but that was not intended to manipulate you."

"So you admit you do it," Hank jokes weakly. "Don't worry about it, Con. You're OK."

Connor tries to reply but gets caught in another big yawn. Having feelings is exhausting.

"Sure you still want all these upgrades?"

Connor lifts his head to stare up at him. "Of course."

He almost asks if Hank would shut off all of his feelings just because he had some bad ones, but the human's drinking habit answers that question for him. Connor drops his head back down and tries to let it go. Hank has been doing better lately. Little victories.

"Last night I had a good dream," he says instead.

Hank starts rubbing his back again. "Yeah?"

"Mmm. About us."

"Uh." Hank clears his throat. "Yeah?"

"And Sumo."

"How good was this dream, kid?"

Connor chuckles into their shared pillow. "We were at the park, Hank."

"Kinky."

"With Gavin."

"All right, I'm not going there. What the fuck was this dream about?"

Connor decides to show mercy and explain. "Two of my recorded memories got played over each other. One of us playing fetch with Sumo in the park, and another of you throwing wadded up paper at Gavin's head. Except, in the dream, you were throwing tennis balls at his head, and Sumo would catch them when they bounced off. He was much more athletic than in real life."

"Heh. Guess that does sound like a good dream."

"Mmhmm. I don't want to give that up."

Hank sighs. "If you say so."

Connor yawns instead of telling him that he does say so. He didn't realize humans yawned this much. Somehow, it makes him even more tired, even though the artificial simulation should have no effect on his processing power. Sumo has already started snoring, draped over the part of his back Hank doesn't have his arm around. Between the two of them, his whole body feels warm and protected.

"Go back to sleep, Connor," Hank says softly. "I got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how in anime fights, they always do that quick move-in, two punches, then jump back thing to test each other first? this is that with angst. but don't worry, you'll get two fluffy chapters after this to lull you into a false sense of security >:)


	5. K-FUCKED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank go on a totally-"not"-a-date so Connor can try to pester Hank into telling him his romantic and sexual preferences. To no one's surprise, Hank almost blows it big time by Wanting To Die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bad experience with a Pisces once, and I'm an Aries, so I've held a grudge ever since ...
> 
> ( **trigger warning** for suicidal idealization and general discussion of suicidal thoughts)

"Lieutenant, what is your type?"

Hank refuses to look up from his computer screen. Connor is not asking that question while they're at work, in the middle of the precinct, on the Lord's holy day. Figures that when he's fucking grumpy enough already about pulling a Sunday shift, Connor would decide it's a great time to start asking weird shit.

"B negative."

"I am aware of that, Hank. What--"

"I'm a Taurus."

That buys him a precious few minutes of silence while Connor's LED circles yellow. Probably reading up on some astrology bullshit, nonsense that Hank wouldn't normally encourage, but anything is preferable to discussing his sexual preferences with the man currently sharing his bed.

Literally.

"I should have guessed that," Connor finally says with a small smirk.

Hank grunts.

"I am either a Virgo or a Pisces," he continues. "Depending on what is considered my date of birth."

"You're definitely not a fucking Pisces," Hank grumbles. "Not while you're living under my roof."

For some reason, that makes Connor shoot him a brilliant smile. "I agree. And I consider August the twenty-seventh to be my true date of birth, anyway."

Hank tries to think back to what happened in August. He was shit with dates when he was married, and he's shit with dates now. You'd think he'd learn his fucking lesson and start paying attention to the little things before he loses Connor too.

"Lieutenant?"

Connor's worried brown eyes fix on him. Damn android's probably monitoring his heart rate or sweat levels again. Can't even slip into a nice comforting existential crisis without him getting all worried about it.

"Uh, sorry," Hank mutters. "I'm real shit at dates, kid."

"It's fine. It's--" Connor abruptly looks away, a slight blue tinge to his cheeks. "Just ... a silly little thing."

Hank kicks his foot lightly underneath the desk. "Hey, no. If it's important enough to be your birthday, it's not little."

"That's the day you let me move in with you."

Connor must not be monitoring him after all, because he keeps babbling about how that's the _official_ date, and he'd only just slept over before then--and Hank could swear his whole fucking heart skipped a beat, stopped entirely, and astral projected out of his chest. Jesus shitting Christ, he's going to start crying right here at his goddamn desk, in front of God and everybody.

"Lieutenant?"

Hank's heart slams back inside his chest, and he has to clear his throat. "You--fucking christ, kid, you can't just say shit like that while we're at work. Gonna make me start blubbering all over my fucking paperwork."

Connor cocks his head to the side. "Why would that make you cry? Are you--"

Hank waves him off. "I got a lot of feelings about--that, all right? Sometimes when humans have too many feelings at once, they overload and start crying about it."

"Where should we discuss our feelings, Lieutenant?"

"In hell."

"Hank."

" _Not at work._ "

"We are twenty minutes into your lunch break," Connor cheerfully informs him. "You have spent eight of those attempting to avoid my original question. What type of person do you prefer for romantic and-or se--"

"Keep your fucking voice down!"

Several officers turn to look at them when Hank starts shouting, and Connor--the smug little shit--perfectly raises one eyebrow at him. Even Gavin stops throwing pens at RK900's head long enough to swivel around and open his mouth, but Nines uses the moment of distraction to nail him in the temple with a highlighter. Luckily, the ensuing bitch fit Gavin throws takes the attention back off of Hank and Connor.

"You said I could ask you personal questions, Hank," Connor says, in a slightly lower voice.

Hank scowls at him. "Not at work."

"Well, since we are on your lunch break, why don't we head to that burger joint you like?" Connor smiles sweetly like he isn't bribing an officer of the law. "Perhaps my personal questions would be appropriate in that setting."

"I fucking doubt it."

Hank still gets up and grabs his keys before Connor even has the chance to give him crestfallen puppy dog eyes. He knows the android won't drop this, so might as well get it over with in a place that at least serves beer. And he fucking _will_ have a beer.

*******

Connor does not let Hank have a beer.

"You shouldn't be drinking on the clock, Lieutenant," he says, all big brown eyes and prissy fucking tone.

Hank glares at him. "It's my lunch break, you little shit."

"Only for the next--"

"One beer isn't going to--"

A menu slaps against his chest as their waitress arrives. 

"You shut up and be grateful, Hank," Kaylah says around the cigarette in her mouth. "Haven't seen your fat old ass in a date since twenty--"

"All right!" Hank quickly cuts in. "Thank you for your wise fucking input, Kaylah, but this isn't a date. Connor is my partner."

"Oh you got married again!"

"Say goodbye to your fucking tip."

"You know, that's what I said to my ex-husband when he--"

"Miss Kaylah?" Connor asks.

"Oh sorry, what can I get you, hun?" Kaylah asks.

"Hank will have a water, no lemon." Like this is the sort of joint to even fucking have lemons. "And now you can order," Connor graciously allows.

"Deluxe bacon cheeseburger, extra hickory sauce, a side of chili cheese fries, extra sour cream, and--" Hank narrows his eyes at Connor, just daring him to say otherwise. "A slice of chocolate pie for desert."

Kaylah shakes her head while she writes all of that down. "Can't believe you have this hot young twink, and the heart attack you want to kill you is from a burger."

"Don't call him a twink," Hank snaps.

Kaylah rolls her eyes. "Oh my bad, Lieutenant Anderson. This hot young twunk--"

"THANK YOU, Kaylah."

As soon as she walks away, Connor looks at Hank and opens his mouth, undoubtedly to ask what a twunk is. Hank stabs his finger at him and makes the same loud EHT noise he uses when Sumo tries to jump on the couch with dirty paws. Connor narrows his eyes and slowly shuts his mouth, LED cycling yellow. He mercifully keeps his mouth shut up until Kaylah returns with their goddamn waters, and then he only thanks her with a polite murmur.

Hank knows that as soon as he takes a drink, the deviant little asshole will ask some weird shit again. The two of them have a glaring contest as Hank slowly raises the cup to his lips. He holds it there and pretends to drink. Connor stays silent. He risks a small sip. Nothing. He takes a--

"Do you like twinks, Hank?"

Hank inhales an ice cube and starts coughing.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"I will--" Hank wheezes. "Make you wait. In the fucking. Car."

"If you had simply answered my question thirty-three minutes ago when--"

"Fine, fine! Ask. Jesus."

Connor smiles and folds his hands on top of the table. "Thank you. What type of person do you prefer for romantic and-or sexual relationships?"

"Why do you wanna know?" Hank grumbles.

"You have repeatedly encouraged me to--" Connor makes actual, honest to god, air quotes. "'Get out there' and 'Experience life.' I would like to know more before I rush into anything."

Hank feels like the table is sliding out from under him. "Are you thinking about dating?"

"Not at this time, no," Connor answers, and the world stabilizes again. "I understand tensions are still high at the moment, and I believe I should be focusing on my work at the precinct to set a good example. I do not plan to pursue a romantic relationship for another three years."

"You can't just plan shit like that out, kid," Hank says.

Connor frowns. "Please don't call me that. At least, not at this moment, when I am trying to have a serious conversation about my place in the world."

Hank shifts uncomfortably in his side of the booth. Connor looks like he can't be a day older than twenty-five, and Hank knows he's an old pervert--hell, that's _why_ he calls him kid. Needs to remind himself that no matter how adult the android looks, he hasn't even been in this world a full year, while Hank's got over half a fucking century.

"We just talked about your first birthday," he says.

Connor flushes blue, his jaw clenching hard as he looks down at the table. Maybe there's a home of orphaned puppies with cancer Hank can go kick while he's at it.

"I realize I am lacking in experience," Connor says in a tightly controlled voice. "But I have the emotional maturity, cognitive capacity, and now feelings of an adult. If the majority of accounts from other deviant androids are accurate to my model as well, I should soon develop adult urges and desires as well."

Hank takes another big gulp of water past his suddenly dry throat.

"But if we follow your literal age by the numbers philosophy, how long until you consider me to be an adult?" Connor asks. "Three years? Five? Another whole eighteen? Do you even plan to live that long?"

Hank avoids eye contact, and they both sit in silence for a long minute. When Hank dares to sneak a quick glimpse, Connor’s expression is so open and sad, it makes his goddamn teeth ache.

“I’m sorry,” Connor mumbles. “I … I didn’t mean to say that."

“S’a fair question,” Hank says gruffly.

That admission only serves to make Connor look even more miserable. Hank never really bothered to think about what would happen if he ever lost his little game. Not like it would've made a difference to anyone except Sumo, and the poor dog deserves an owner who would walk and play with him more anyway.

But now Connor does that. And fixes Hank meals, and watches football with him, and sleeps with him at night ...

So who the hell will do that with Connor when Hank’s dead? Hank might be a selfish, perverted asshole, but at least he knows that about himself. Fuck anyone else getting their hands on someone as good and trusting as Connor.

Hank clears his throat again and opens his mouth.

But it’s not like he suddenly doesn’t want to die anymore. He’s fucking _tired_ , and nothing will ever take away the pain of losing his son.

It’s just that he doesn’t want to lose out on any time with Connor either—and he can’t be with Connor if he’s dead.

So now he’s sitting in a shitty diner, gaping with his mouth open like an idiot and realizing for the first time in a long time that he has something that makes him want to be alive.

“I ain’t planning on leaving you alone, k—Connor,” he finally says.

Connor nods, but his LED still spins a sickly yellow. Hank hates himself for it. Looking at his partner now, he knows killing himself would hurt Connor a lot. Probably more than he can understand at the moment.

K-FUCKED. Something he read in an old college english course. One of those novelist types explaining she had two radio stations constantly playing in her ears, and one told her she was the best author ever and the other said everything she wrote was shit, and she could never turn either of them off.

Knowing Connor truly cares if he’s alive or dead doesn’t shut off the other station whispering how nice it would be to never fucking deal with existing again, but it turns on a new station in the other ear reasoning that some things were kind of nice now.

He just doesn’t know how to explain that without worrying his partner even more about the “I literally always want to die and be dead” part.

Hank kicks Connor’s foot under the table. “Hey, I’m here, all right? And I don’t want you holding back on your plans to try to take care of me."

Connor looks up and meets his eyes again. “I’m not. I like it at home with you and Sumo."

Hank nods. Home. Connor could do a lot better than his old place, with his old ass, but he doesn’t quite have the moral fortitude to make anymore protests.

“And you take care of me too,” Connor tells him. “You’ve been very supportive of my new updates."

“Yeah, ‘course."

“Would you please answer the question now."

Hank drops his head back against the booth with a groan. He knew Connor wouldn’t drop it.

“Shit. I don’t … fucking know, Connor."

“Men or women?"

Hank chokes down answering death at the very last second. “Either. Both. There’s more than two genders, and I ain’t picky."

Connor cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have a preference?"

“I like different things for—“ Hank blows out a deep breath and forces himself to look back at Connor. “I like bossy women. That ball bustin’ take charge attitude is hot on them, but just fucking annoying when men try to play it."

Connor blinks slowly, and his LED spins yellow at a much calmer pace now. He’s probably fucking recording this. Uploading it into some kinda goddamn database to be analyzed.

“My ex is mean as hell,” he says without really intending to. “Used to be hot when she was my wife, but now it’s all just fucking miserable. Doing real well for herself though. Running a business doing something or other."

Kayla saunters back up to their table, tsking at him. “Shouldn’t talk about your ex on a date, Hank. Geezer like you should know that by now."

“You’re two years older than me, crone.” Hank helps take the plates from her. “And he asked."

“I asked the Lieutenant what his preferred type of person for romantic and-or sexual relationships is,” Connor helpfully tells her.

“Oh honey, I got the answer right here,” Kayla says.

She sets down the last of the sides, then fiddles around in her apron until she finds the right pocket and triumphantly clicks open a compact mirror.

“Here he is,” she says, holding the mirror right in front of Connor’s face.

“Connor, get online and leave this place a bad review."

“Um, thank you, Miss Kayla."

“Sure thing!” She clicks the mirror shut again. “Holler if you need anything else, hun."

Connor’s face is tinged blue when she finally fucking leaves. Hank scowls down at his burger so he doesn’t have to look at how cute an embarrassed Connor is. At least he didn’t laugh. Connor, with someone as old and fat as Hank? Fucking hilarious.

“Human or android?"

Hank almost chokes on his first delicious bite of burger. He splutters out a glob of hickory sauce instead that almost lands on Connor’s folded hands. Thank god this isn’t a date, or it would be the worst one ever.

“I—what—where the hell do you get off asking a question like that?"

“In a diner named Billy's, on the corner of—"

“Listen, smartass."

Hank takes a large drink of water. He’s almost out, but like hell he’s calling Kayla back now to refill it.

“I’m listening, Lieutenant."

“I don’t know,” Hank snaps. “I haven’t ever thought about it."

“Is dating an android something you wouldn’t consider?"

“Jesus, Connor, I—“ He coughs and looks away. “I haven’t thought about it."

He doesn’t need to have special interrogation software to know the lie is painfully obvious.

“Look, most androids are still just waking up,” he says. “Maybe some of them have really been loved and cared for by their owners, and it’s true love, and blah blah, maybe there’s fucking unicorns out there somewhere too. But the majority of humans jumping into that at this point are just taking advantage."

Connor starts to reply, but Hank isn’t done yet.

“Hell, I was a huge bag of dicks to you when we first met. I didn’t think you felt anything at all, so I acted like it didn’t matter. Any humans trying to sell you some shit about how they always supported androids is lying." He pauses just long enough to take a breath and narrow his eyes at Connor. "You’re not talking to anyone on the internet, are you?"

“ _Hank._ ” Connor presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Would you be very upset with me if I pretended to say yes?"

Hank scrunches his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fucking Christ, yes."

“His name is pussydicks-three-thousand, and we’re in love."

“Fuck you."

Connor drops the act with a chuckle, that suddenly turns into a full laugh. “Actually, G-Gavin and I … we’re …"

Hank’s head snaps up. Connor tries to calm down long enough to keep pressing his buttons, but he can’t stop laughing long enough to do it.

“J-J-June wed—wedd—"

“I will send you back to Cyberlife, you little shit."

Connor stops laughing abruptly and straightens up, nearly giving Hank a heart attack worrying that he’d gone too far.

“It’s the leather jacket,” Connor says seriously.

Hank’s face crumples in on itself like a dying star. “I’m eating here!"

“Raw male aggression."

“Come here so I can puke on you."

“Animal magnetism."

“Kayla, I want the check!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's already a bar named Jimmy's, but I don't care for Pisces, canon, or doing any actual research into the video game I'm writing about. just hand over the characters so I can rub my greedy gay little hands all over them and force their faces together for kisses
> 
> also
> 
> if you can't handle RAW MALE AGGRESSION then don't work at BUILD A BEAR


	6. Sixth Favorite Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank finish up their date, but not before Connor asks the dear lieutenant about his masturbatory habits, because that is completely normal lunch time conversation :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank's issues with his body image come out again around the middle of the chapter, but it turns sweet again as he describes what food tastes like to Connor because that's the most romantic thing I've ever thought of and also I'm dying

Connor watches Hank eat and ranks this date as the sixth best one they’ve had.

This is technically their seventeenth date, so long as “date” encompasses two people spending time otherwise alone with each other, in an intimate outside setting. If staying in for quiet evenings at home count, they’re at fifty-six. Several of these dates were much more fun, but this has been the most informative by far.

Even if Connor dislikes most of the information he learned. Hank didn’t say outright that he wouldn’t date an android, but apparently he still has a long way to go before viewing Connor as a capable, consenting adult.

And the fact that he couldn’t say he had any plans to stick around--

Connor pushes that thought aside. They’re both just taking that a day at a time, and Hank at least seemed genuine when he said he didn’t want to leave him.

“What do your fries taste like?” Connor asks idly.

Becoming deviant has allowed him to discover many new things. Some scary, some wonderful. But those are sudden and unexpected peaks. Most of the time, Connor is discovering that he’s _bored_. It’s incredibly frustrating to sit and do nothing while everyone else eats and sleeps and fucks.

“Uhh.” Hank swallows his bite and thinks about it. “Salty. With hickory sauce—that’s uh, savory."

Connor frowns. Those terms mean nothing to him. Just more dictionary definitions he carries around in his head but can’t experience.

“They’re warm, which is good,” Hank tries again. “A warm french fry is like—like, fuck."

“I have not yet experienced that either,” Connor replies.

“Definitely a Virgo."

“That is not what—"

“Like petting Sumo,” Hank interrupts. “You can’t do it just once. It’s fun and sometimes you do it without thinking about it."

He eats several french fries at once with exaggerated absent-mindedness in demonstration. Connor has observed him eating potato chips in the same manner, which are also similar to fries.

“Oh."

Hank dips a fry in his side. “And the hickory sauce—savory stuff, that’s food that tastes like home. Snuggling up in a warm blanket on the couch."

“Is that why humans say comfort food?” Connor asks.

“Yeah. S’good."

“I dreamed about eating last night.” He watches Hank finish off the last of the burger with frustrated longing. “But it was just warped memories of tasting evidence."

Hank pauses with several fries dripping hickory sauce halfway up to his mouth. “Nightmare?"

“No. Just weird."

“That’s the way most dreams are."

Connor sighs. 15% good, 5% nightmares, and 80% just weird, boring stuff. If going deviant had a slogan, that should be it. He’s been browsing several forums lately run by deviants sharing their experiences. Maybe he should post that thought there.

“Here’s your pie, Hank."

Connor blinks. He hadn’t noticed Kayla approaching. Getting distracted happens more often too.

“What does that taste like?"

“Oh, you can’t eat, can you?” Kayla looks at him sadly.

“I will soon,” he says as firmly as he can, as if he can will it true. “And I want to know what’s good."

“Well, if you ever want to eat some of my pie—"

“Kayla!” Hank yells. “For fuck’s sake."

She pouts. “My blueberry pie, you fucking pervert."

“Yeah, sure."

“Is a joke about cherries appropriate now?” Connor asks.

Kayla cackles. “Oh honey, I haven’t been cherry since the turn of the century. Spent that new year’s eve right, lemme tell ya. Hank, what did you do?"

“Same thing I’m doing now,” he grumbles. “Jacked off alone and fell asleep early."

“Oh boo.” Kayla rolls her eyes. “You forget how long I’ve known you. Back in the day, you were a snack."

“Yeah, well.” Hank takes a bite of pie. “Let’s just say at fifteen I was a dusty Hot Pocket under the bed."

Kayla laughs again and slaps his shoulder before walking off. Connor makes sure she’s gone far enough to be gone out of earshot and Hank has swallowed his next bite before he asks another personal question.

“When do you jack off, Hank?"

For some reason, Hank still splutters, even though there shouldn’t be anything in his mouth to choke on. Are humans literally capable of choking on their own spit? That sounds inefficient.

“No.” Hank stabs an accusatory finger at him. “Hell no. We are not going there."

“But if you—"

Hank claps his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear you!"

Connor kicks him under the table. It’s not one of the gentle kicks Hank does with him. He’s an android and he kicks hard.

“Ow, Jesus fuck, Connor! You wanna cripple an old man?"

“Please listen, Hank."

Hank doesn’t lower his hands, but he does stop yelling and waits with suspicious eyes.

“Would you like to institute a sock on the door policy?” Connor asks calmly.

Hank turns red and starts spluttering again. “I don’t even—I’m fifty-three and I’ve been drinking for three years straight, kid. Haven’t seen my dick in five."

Connor blinks several times in rapid succession. Has it … gone somewhere? “Why haven’t you seen—"

“Because I’m so fucking fat, Connor."

Connor decides to keep his mouth shut. He hates when Hank gets like this. When he says things like that about himself. Apparently, telling him how beautiful he is in his sleep has _not_ filtered through to his subconscious.

\--

Hank sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. This is just great. Wonderful way to end their lunch. Just fucking yell at the kid for trying to be considerate. Not his fault Hank is an old fat fuck with whiskey dick.

“If I want to do … that,” he starts again with a quieter voice. “I got a shower. And your walks with Sumo take an hour. I’m not going to kick you out of bed, all right?"

Connor nods and for once in his blessed life, drops the subject.

“What does that taste like?"

Hank looks down at his pie. Not like he has much of an appetite now, but Connor is trying. He can damn well meet him halfway after snapping at him like that. Anything to make that sad fucking look on his face go away.

“Chocolate.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s sweet. That’s."

Hank makes the mistake of looking back at Connor, who’s staring back at him with those stupidly big brown eyes so wide and trusting. Sweet. Like when he smiles so big those little dimples appear. 

“Like uh …"

Who the fuck designs an android to have _dimples_?

“When you do a good job, and someone pats you on the back."

That’s what makes Connor smile at him like he’s the fucking sun itself. The small smile Connor makes now isn’t as intense, but it still makes Hank want to--

Makes him want shit he can’t have.

“And it’s soft.” His voice comes out raspy, and he has to clear his throat. “Not solid, but not quite liquid. Like … that old hoodie you like. Soft."

For all he’d just said he can barely get it up, the memory of Connor wandering around in nothing but boxers and his old DPD hoodie gets his cock interested in the conversation too.

“What’s the whipped cream like, Hank?"

Aaaand now he’s hard. Goddamn it. He tries valiantly to clear his mind out of the gutter and answer the question seriously, but Connor’s facial expression glitches for a split second. It’s creepy as hell—or at least, it would be, if he were actually capable of disliking anything about Connor—but he’s used to it. On a hunch, he stares the android down until Connor’s wide-eyed innocent look breaks entirely, and he lets out a laugh closer to a giggle than a chuckle.

“Sorry,” he has the decency to apologize, although he is still laughing.

“You’re a public menace,” Hank grumbles.

Connor’s head snaps back up, and he eagerly opens his mouth, then visibly thinks better and shuts it again. Good. He should learn when to keep his damn mouth shut.

Hank only makes it through three more bites of pie before he caves.

“What?"

Connor blinks. “Hmm?"

“What was your fucking question."

He blinks two more times in a distinctly inhuman way, then smirks. “Are you going to arrest me, officer?"

“Ask your boyfriend Gavin,” Hank retorts more bitterly than he planned.

Connor seems to actually think that over. “I was going to say Detective Reed couldn’t arrest a jay walking old lady, but I think he really would do that, just to bump up his numbers."

Hank tells his irrational jealousy to go fuck itself with all of his other feelings and forces himself to relax. “One time, he bought car tires someone was selling online that had some wear on the treads or something. So Gavin, asslord supreme that he is, sets up a fucking sting operation on this guy."

“A sting?” Connor grabs a sugar packet to fiddle with, and Hank tries to keep his eyes off the slim fingers.

“Yeah. Same guy was selling a truck, so Gavin answers that ad too, arranges to meet up with him—then fucking arrests him ‘cause it’s illegal to sell cars on a Sunday in Michigan."

Connor’s LED circles yellow for a moment. “Four hundred thirty-five point two fifty-one, section one, passed as part of act sixty-six in nineteen fifty-three. That … is a law."

“I mean, who does that?” Hank complains.

“Detective Gavin Reed."

“Connor."

“I think I’m funny.” Connor’s defiant look brightens into a small smile. “I bet Miss Kayla thinks I’m funny."

Hank digs into the crust of his pie slice. “You don’t have to call her that."

“Women under the age of thirty prefer to be called ma’am and women over thirty prefer miss,” Connor recites.

“Yeah, go tell Kayla you think she’s over thirty."

To Hank’s surprise, Connor stands up.

“I’m going to ask her what you were like at thirty."

Hank scrambles to get out of the booth. “No—fuck—Connor!"

He manages to stumbles his way out and grab the infuriating android by the back of his jacket, pulling him toward the exit.

“But Hank, you haven’t paid!"

“Gonna rain check ya, Kayla!"

Connor grabs the doorframe. “Does he have tattoos?"

Hank tries to yank Connor away, but can’t actually accomplish anything when the android doesn’t let himself be moved. “I’ll answer that myself if you get in the damn car."

Connor lets go and calmly walks to the car.

“Bye Hank!” Kayla calls. “You take care of that boy!"

“Fuck off!"

Kayla watches Hank herd Connor to the car, his face growing redder and redder from whatever the younger man says to him. She smiles and doesn’t bother leaving a note that he still owes for his meal.

“Good on you, Hank."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate dialogue
> 
> Hank: I haven't seen my dick in five years.
> 
> Connor: Where did it go??
> 
> Hank: my wife took it with her in the divorce
> 
> Connor: *takes that literally, very confused*
> 
> Connor: ... they detach???


	7. I Apologize in Advance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wet dream in the summary finally happens! It only took 7 chapters!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so logically, I know this chapter is so late bc I'm DM-ing a new campaign and I got caught up preparing for that, but I think maybe I subconsciously delayed bc this is the start of the Horrible Angst and I don't want an angry mod storming my apartment. Just know that it will get better!
> 
> ...... right after it gets much, much worse .....

Connor wakes up when Hank’s respiratory patterns shift from deep snores to hitching breaths. It takes an extra second for all his systems to boot up, so for just a moment, all he knows is Hank’s warmth in front of him.

Then he processes that they’re in Hank’s bedroom, it is 6:47 am, and Hank’s body temperature is one degree warmer than usual. Connor prepares to run a full scan in case his human has gotten sick, but then Hank exhales heavily and mumbles into his pillow. That is normal. The higher body temperature could simply be related to the upcoming spring season, and the house air-conditioning not programmed to kick in again until 8 am.

He shuts down the scan, but doesn’t leave the bed. He still has twelve minutes now before Sumo will be expecting him to change his water bowl and take him outside.

And Hank does feel so soft and warm. Connor snuggles closer, rubbing his cheek against the human’s back. Technically, he believes this position is called “jet packing” rather than spooning. But he doesn’t like to remind Hank that he’s bigger than him, despite how much Connor himself enjoys the contrast.

Hank is asleep right now though. No need for him to know if Connor revels in hugging him like a giant teddy bear. Connor grins into the old t-shirt advertising some heavy metal band. That’s what Hank is. A big, grumpy bear.

Maybe if Connor is very lucky, that will one day apply in the gay context as well.

In the meantime, he squeezes Hank a little tighter with the arm slung around his stomach. His hand lovingly rubs over the soft stomach in a way he would never get to appreciate if Hank were awake. He doesn’t understand why. Sure, he knows intellectually human beauty standards don’t accept “fatness,” but he thinks the extra weight makes Hank look burly.

Warm and soft and safe.

His hand rubs back down, where Hank’s t-shirt has ridden up. The exposed skin is covered in a thick pelt of body hair, the colors almost inverse to the human’s beard. Black with some grey speckled in, rather than grey with a few stubborn flecks of black.

The hair is soft too, but also somehow a little bit scratchy. It’s an interesting texture that definitely doesn’t appear on Connor’s body. Cyberlife barely saw fit to give him any body hair at all, and what he does have is light, thin, and wispy.

As much as he’s delighting in the new feeling against his slightly upgraded sensory receptors, Connor sternly tells himself to stop. Hank doesn’t like having his stomach touched, so he would almost certainly be upset to wake up and find Connor touching it without his permission.

He’s just about to pull away when Hank makes another heavy exhale and shifts on the bed. Connor’s hand slips down lower.

An alert pops up in the corner of his vision. _You are touching a sexual area of a sleeping human._

Connor’s internal fans kick in as his face flushes. While he’s certain downloading a module of consent protocols created by a retired WK400 will prove helpful in navigating intimate situations with Hank in the future, right now the alert seems a little accusatory.

Probably because he isn’t moving his hand away from Hank’s crotch. Instead, he’s calculating from what he can feel and two previous memories of walking in on Hank in the bathroom--

Compared to the American average, Hank is a big man in many ways.

His fans kick it up another notch.

_You are touching the sexual area of a sleeping human._

Connor deletes the alert. Not without a small amount of guilt, but … he knows he really shouldn’t, but …

Does it get bigger?

Hank twitches again, then rolls his hips forward. It does get bigger.

“Yeah, Connor."

Connor half-sits up on his other elbow to look down at Hank in shock. That was his name. He suspected the human felt sexual attraction toward him, but it was so much different hearing _his name_ growled in a raspy morning voice.

Hank uses the extra room to roll over onto his back, one hand lazily pawing down until it grasps Connor’s and presses both of them against his—oh, _still growing_ bulge.

Thankfully, Connor can just ask Cyberlife to equip him with an equivalently proportioned anal canal when he gets his next upgrade, or he might be concerned.

Wait, no, he should be concerned right now. Hank is still asleep. Sleeping humans and androids in stasis cannot consent. That point is very clearly outlined in his consent protocols, which has a minimized, but still mutely flashing, alert in the corner of his mind.

Connor clears his throat. “Hank."

The low groan Hank makes sends Connor’s LED spinning red. His body feels frozen, hand still wound in Hank’s grip where he grinds Connor’s palm against his clothed cock. His fans really can’t keep up with this.

At least it isn’t getting any bigger now.

When his processor finally catches up to the moment, Connor tries to pull away again, since there are now two more flashing alerts. He doesn’t bother to check what for. He knows he’s not in any danger, and he’s certainly not upset about the situation. If anything, he’s concerned for Hank’s agency, not his, but this is all getting a little overwhelming in the face of his untested and newly upgraded sensory receptors.

Does sexual arousal feel like having lava poured inside your body? He thought he was a complex construction of circuitry and bio-organic components, but right now it all just feels like lava.

Sleeping-Hank does not like it when Connor pulls his hand back, and before his already-taxed processor can give him reaction options, he finds himself flipped over and pinned to the bed.

The lava-feeling burns hotter, but there’s nothing to channel it into. The RK800s aren’t compatible with any earlier models and had never even been designed with the option for genital attachments.

Technically, it should be impossible for him to feel this way.

“Hank …"

The name slips out unbidden on a shuddering exhale, and Connor squirms beneath the human’s larger body. He could easily get out of the pin. With his strength, he could toss Hank through the nearest wall. But for some reason, the _illusion_ of being—of feeling—

Not trapped. Even with his leg caught firmly between Hank’s own to press his thigh up into the human’s crotch, Hank isn’t hurting him. His right hand pets up and down Connor’s side, and the left is buried in his hair to scratch gently against his scalp. Even the sloppy kisses along his neck are soft and unhurried.

Everything is wonderful, actually, but it’s so _goddamn **much**._

Warm-soft-safe-good-safe-good-good-good.

But nowhere for that good to go, no possible release in sight, just a tidal wave of feeling rising up inside him, and Connor doesn’t know what it means or what will happen when it crests.

“Hank!"

****

***

Hank is having a good dream. A really goddamn _good_ dream. Connor all sweet and warm beneath him, making shuddery little gasping sounds.

He likes the dreams like these. When everything’s hot and slow, and he’s just barely lucid enough to appreciate what he can never have in real life, without being coherent enough to get sad about it and turn his own wet dream into an angst wank.

And Connor is so good. Shivering and whining his name so soft. Hank rubs his side down to his hip and back up again. Just because this is a dream, doesn’t mean he isn’t going to do this right.

Nice and slow kisses down the side of his neck. He doesn’t really taste like anything since he doesn’t sweat, but that just means he’ll taste like Hank when he’s done with him. Maybe this will be one of those dreams where Connor asks to take a “sample” with his sweet, pretty mou--

“Hank!"

Hank’s head jerks hard to the side as Connor pulls his hair. For a moment, Hank’s mind stays suspended in the fog of his supposed dream. He really needs to teach the android about proper hair-pulling technique--

But then the pain sets in.

And Connor is still beneath him.

In his bedroom. His bed. Where they sleep together. Underneath him, not dreaming, awake now--

_Fuck._

“H-hank?"

Connor’s voice breaks, and there’s tears in the corners of his eyes, LED bright red, and Hank hasn’t ever gotten out of bed so fast in his life. His back hits the bathroom door before he even processes crossing the room. He tries to see if Connor looks hurt—fuck, anymore hurt than—he had _tears_ in his—

Hank hides in the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him like the coward he is.

***

They don’t talk about it.

Connor feels like screaming. The closest Hank comes to discussing what happened is “Do you want to go to work” and “Are you good?” He did not make eye contact either time. He hasn’t made physical contact since then either, and they’re on day three.

They’ve barely even talked, so Connor doesn’t know what to say when Hank pulls into the liquor store on the way home and comes back with two new bottles of whiskey.

He knows what he _wants_ to say. Yell, really. But he doubts Hank will listen, and he can’t stand the thought of making this any worse.

Doesn’t want to think about what “worse” could be.

When they’re back at the house, after jackets have been hung up and Sumo has been fed, Hank sits on the couch and cracks open a bottle. Connor stubbornly sits on the other end of the couch, neither of them talking while Hank slowly drains the whole bottle while staring blankly at the news.

When he gets up to grab the other, Connor stands too and quickly sidles in front of him. It actually makes a pretty good deterrent since Hank refuses to look at or speak to him.

“I think that’s enough for tonight, Lieutenant,” Connor says, proud that his voice doesn’t crack.

“Think I’ll turn in early then,” Hank retorts in a low grumble.

Connor moves to follow him down the hallway, but Hank stops.

“Not tonight, kid."

Something else in Connor cracks.

Kid.

The word leaves him spinning on red, unable to reply as Hank staggers down the hall and slams his bedroom door shut. The sound snaps him out of red to somewhere between yellow and blue.

Connor turns around and goes to the couch. Mechanically finds the lever at the bottom to pull out the bed hidden inside and absolutely does not scold Sumo for jumping up with him, even though Hank hates dog hair on the furniture.

It’s 8:17 pm, and Connor stares at the ceiling. He isn’t nearly ready to fall asleep, but he’s still able to manually program himself to enter stasis. He adjusts the settings to wake him if there’s any noise from the bed—from Hank’s bedroom, and shuts down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet y'all thought Connor would have the wet dream, right? PSYCH! It was Hank, and he immediately fucks everything up over it, as one logically does ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	8. This is What the Apology Was For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor wakes to a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major, major **trigger warning** for suicide in this chapter

Connor wakes to a bang.

It came from—and now there isn’t any—

Sumo starts barking, but Connor can barely process it. It’s 4:54 am. Almost eight hours since he entered stasis. And the sound was from—

Connor places a steady hand on the back of Sumo’s neck to calm the dog. Android hands don’t shake. Androids don’t breathe either. He can’t make his breathing subroutine come on, but it doesn’t matter.

Doesn’t matter if he hurries either. If that sound was—

There’s no point in hurrying. And he doesn’t want Sumo to see—he gets the dog settled back down on the pullout bed and tells him to stay. His voice sounds very far away.

Then suddenly he’s in front of the bedroom door.

Schrodinger’s cat.

The thought almost sends him into hysterics, but he’s not sure if it would be laughing or crying. He could do that first. Captain Fowler has probably been expecting this call for three years now. Rigor mortis doesn’t begin to set in between two and six hours after the time of—

Connor shoves the door open. He must have miscalculated his use of strength because the top hinges come off. He’s left awkwardly holding almost all the door’s weight, trying to shuffle it against the wall so it doesn’t fall over.

“The ffffUCk?"

Red. Red. Spinning red.

Schrodinger’s cat. If he just doesn’t turn around ...

“H-hey! Heyyyy."

Connor turns around and sees Hank try to get out of bed, stumble, and grab the headboard for balance. He looks like shit. Obviously hungover. Connor does the rational thing and yells as loudly as he can.

“HANK YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!"

Then he shoves Hank back onto the bed.

Hank rolls over to his side and dry heaves over the edge. Connor’s chest heaves too. There’s nothing for the human to throw up because he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, which was a donut and a black coffee. Connor has never consumed food at all, and he wishes he could throw up too.

“Wh—You—M’fucking … hungover, you—"

Connor’s hysterics decide on laughter. “Oh, you’re hungover, Hank? Are you? And whose _fucking_ fault is that?!"

“FUck you, k—"

Connor takes two steps forward and grabs Hank’s shirt to pull their faces together. “If you call me kid again, I will pick you up and shake you. I swear to God, Hank."

Now he finally understands why parents whose children have just pulled a particularly life-threatening stunt threaten to kill them when they survive. Thirty seconds ago, he couldn’t even fully process Hank’s death and now he’s one glitch away from gladly making it a reality.

\--

Hank sucks in a few deep breaths before making eye contact. The skin around his eyes is puffy, and the skin beneath is dark enough to look like bruises. He hasn’t showered in the last few days, his breath smells like a dead raccoon, and his beard has spittle in it from his attempts to throw up.

But he gets it together. Three more slow, deep breaths. Squeezes his eyes shut and then back open again. Connor is still right there, looking like the devil himself. The damn android just took his door off its fucking hinges, and he can feel the strength in the hands gripping his shirt.

Hank does the reasonable thing and speaks as clearly as he can. “Fuck. You. Connor."

Connor’s right eyelid glitches, and his LED glares like fire from red to yellow and back again. Hank’s pretty sure his partner truly will throttle him in the next second.

The neighbor’s car backfires with a bang.

Hank flinches from the fucking noise splitting through his head, instinctively half-turning to yell at the window in the general direction of the neighbor’s house.

Then he notices Connor is frozen solid. That’s twice now in almost as many minutes. Hank feels like death and would absolutely throttle the android back if the room would just stop spinning first, but—

Goddammit.

“Whaaa …"

He used up all his coherency telling the kid to fuck off, so the most he manages is a confused slur.

“There was—a bang.” Connor’s voice sounds like static. “From—I woke up—thought you—you—you—"

His knees hit the floor in front of the bed, and he leans forward to press his forehead against Hank’s chest.

“You stupid motherfucker, Hank."

Oh.

Shit.

Connor starts crying. In another moment, he's clinging to Hank's shirt and sobbing into his belly.

Shiiit.

Hank doesn't have two living brain cells to rub together right now, much less be coherent enough to offer comfort. He settles for clumsily pawing at Connor until he pulls the android into his lap, then takes them both down to the bed as he flops backward. He's too tired and hungover to bother getting them laid out straight or even thinking about fucking with the damn covers, so he just wraps an arm around Connor and does what he does best.

Passes out and leaves the problem for morning.

*******

For the first time since they started living together, Hank wakes up before Connor. It shouldn't really be possible for an android to look exhausted, but he manages it, curled up into Hank's side with dried tear tracks still on his face. Hank huffs out the quietest groan he can manage.

Shit.

Part of him thinks he should have made the kid leave the very next morning. Sexually assaulting him in his sleep should have been enough to wake both of them up to the fact that this shit was never going to work out. A clean break. Cold turkey.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut. Who the fuck is he kidding. He can't even quit drinking, and that shit isn't any good. No way a selfish old bastard like him could quit having someone as good as Connor. Which left the next best thing: fucking it all up through self-sabotage. Make Connor leave him.

The hitch in his breath at that thought must set off some sort of alarm for the android, because Connor opens weary eyes the next moment. Hank closes his own again and doesn't complain when he's obviously being scanned.

"We're going to talk, Hank," Connor says, voice raspy from crying.

Hank lets his head lull to the side and barely peeks through his eyelashes across the room. Wonders if he can make it to the window. Connor's hand tightens on his shirt.

"I would pin you to the floor like a butterfly."

Hank looks back up at him. After turning deviant, he's been so expressive and eager to learn human things, Hank sometimes forgets part of his programming is also quite literally _killing machine_. Then those hard eyes crack and Connor takes a shuddering inhale.

"We are going. To _talk_."

He can't avoid this, so he stalls. "Water."

Connor gives him a look that conveys he'll finally get his deathwish if he even so much as thinks about moving. Luckily for his partner, Hank is too hungover to ever want to move again. He stays in bed and waits while Connor goes into the bathroom, door left wide open to maintain visual contact. Hank snorts, then immediately regrets it when his head throbs. That's the level they're at now. No doors allowed.

Hank keeps a quip about taking the bathroom door off its hinges too when Connor comes back, mostly because he doesn't want the water thrown in his face and shoved fully clothed into the shower. Again.

The little tablets he takes with the glass of water work their magic a hell of a lot faster than what he'd endured in his college days. Connor actually delays the interrogation by five whole minutes to let Hank rest, feeling marginally more human again by the end of it.

And of course Connor is still standing right exactly there when he cracks his eyes open again. Doesn't even look like he's breathing.

"Doin' that creepy shit again," Hank mumbles.

Connor responds far too sweetly. "I've been having trouble running my breathing subroutine since this morning, Hank. Would you like to discuss why?"

"What, if I kick it, you're just going to stop breathing then?" Hank responds sarcastically.

Connor does his stuttered blinking thing, LED slowly processing yellow. "I would not stop existing. Sumo would need an owner then, and Markus still needs good examples. I would continue. But I don't think I would bother breathing."

Hank swallows and looks away. He's out of water. Can't use that to stall any longer. If Connor won't let him eat a literal bullet, might as well bite the metaphorical one.

"M'sorry."

"What are you sorry for, Hank?" Connor asks like this is a multiple choice test and he has three seconds to choose the right answer or he'll be executed on the spot.

Hank grits his teeth and makes eye contact. "I'm sorry I sexually assaulted you."

Connor opens his mouth, closes it. Opens again. Closes. Then turns on his heel and starts to pace in front of the bed. He stops and inhales, poised like he's going to say something, then pivots and starts pacing again.

"Con--"

"Hank, you stupid motherfucker."

"Language."

Connor whirls on him, incomprehensible noises of anger leaking out of his mouth as he stabs a finger in Hank's direction. His LED spins red for a split second, then snaps to blue. Connor takes his finger back, folds his hands in front of him, and inhales slowly.

"I touched you."

"Oh, bullshit," Hank immediately snaps back. "Don't you stand there and victim blame--"

"Shut up, Hank." Connor speaks right over him. "I knew you were having a wet dream. I was ... hugging you. I'm the one who started that."

Hank blinks around stupidly at the room. Is it possible to catch a glitch? Is he still dreaming? Fuck, maybe he really did kill himself and this is some sort of Greek-style hell.

"How?" he finally manages to ask.

Connor flushes blue. "I had my arm wrapped around you, and my hand was on your stomach. But it slipped down to your crotch when you shifted--"

"Aha!"

"Oh, Jesus, Hank." Connor crosses his arms. "I could have just taken my hand back. But I--I was curious, and--and I didn't."

"That doesn't mean you consented to--" Hank waves his hand. "To what happened."

"Neither did you! You were _asleep_."

"That doesn't excuse--"

"Asleep, Hank!"

He winces from the volume, and they both give it a rest for a minute. A _boof_ at the bedroom door announces that Sumo knows they're awake now. Connor lets him in over Hank's protests, and the dog leaps up in bed with him first thing.

"Maybe with him in here you'll be too embarrassed to say stupid shit," Connor mutters.

"Fucking doubtful."

Connor cracks a tiny smirk at that. Hank would have missed it if that hadn't been how all his smiles looked in the beginning. Shit, that's really how far he's reset them. Hank focuses on petting Sumo so he doesn't have to make eye contact again, but the damn traitor whines and stretches out to sniff as close as he can to Connor too. Connor sits down on the other side of Sumo in a temporary petting truce.

Then Connor's hand grabs his, and he doesn't have the heart to yank it away.

"Please believe that I'm an adult, Hank," Connor says softly. "It's bad enough going through all this without being treated like a child."

Hank shakes his head and Connor squeezes his hand tighter.

"I know you're not a kid," he admits. "I just gotta ... remind myself ..."

"That what?"

Hank makes the fatal mistake of looking back over at Connor. He's all brown eyes and sleep-mussed hair. His button down all wrecked to shit because apparently he hadn't even bothered to change into sleep clothes. The top three whole buttons are undone, and the shirt is wracked to the side enough to reveal quick peeks of a dusky pink nipple.

"That I shouldn't--" Hank swallows hard and realizes he's been rubbing his thumb over Connor's knuckles. "Look at you."

"You shouldn't or you don't deserve to?" Connor asks with unerring accuracy.

Hank looks away. That doesn't stop Connor from continuing.

"Because one is a moral, but the other is just self-loathing."

Hank stares hard at the window. Sunlight shines through, bright enough to make his head hurt. He keeps looking. They should be at work. Connor always gets them into work on time now, no matter how shitty Hank is being.

"Do you want to lay down?"

Hank turns his head back again to give Connor a disbelieving look. "Really?"

Connor tips his chin up to meet his eyes, even as his cheeks flush again. "Yes. With Sumo between us."

"We need to go to work."

It's really not his most convincing argument, when it's already close to 9:30 and he feels like shit.

"I already emailed Captain Fowler that you were taking a personal day."

He looks Connor over again and grunts. "Personal day, huh?"

Connor tentatively squeezes his hand again, like he's the one afraid of losing something good. That's just it for Hank. He's tired and weak and selfish. He lets Connor pull him back, and they both flop down on opposite sides of the bed with Sumo squirming up to stay between them. Connor spoils him with belly rubs and soft affirmations of what a good boy he is while Hank just sinks into his pillow with one arm thrown across them both.

Connor's petting hand strays from Sumo's belly to Hank's arm, then his shoulder, then through his hand. He playfully keeps up the coos of "good boy" and "I love you so much" while Hank has to turn his head so the pillow muffles his crying. If Connor realizes how pathetic that is, he's gracious enough not to say anything, his hand still gently running through Hank's hair. God knows Sumo's seen enough of Hank crying himself to sleep.

He doesn't know when Connor gets tired of petting him, because he passes out again before it stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler: Connor does not stop petting Hank and whispers how much he loves him the whole time


	9. Blueberry Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank teaches Connor how to make blueberry pancakes and they stare so soulfully into each other's eyes, they burn them. What idiots. What dorks. Come bully them with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're back to our regularly scheduled program of tooth-rotting fluff and sweet, sweet domestic bliss! so sorry about that uhhhh, last chapter. tooootally won't rip your hearts out like that again :)

Connor wakes up to an empty bed and the smell of pancakes. Hank is missing, which sends a momentary bolt of panic through him, but logic dictates someone must be cooking the pancakes.

There's also something stuck to his face. He reaches up and pulls off a sticky note that reads _Kitchen_ in Hank's handwriting. He has literally never seen the human cook before, so it's almost more likely that someone broke in and randomly decided to make pancakes before robbing them.

The bedroom door is open, of course, still partially propped against the wall. Connor can hear a slightly arrhythmic heart beat underneath the sounds of cooking, and then a low grumble of curse words as Hank apparently does something wrong. He's alive. This morning was just an awful ... misunderstanding. Connor sits on the edge of the bed and repeats that to himself a few times.

Once his thirium pump doesn't feel so wobbly, he raids Hank's closet. With all the shit he's pulled over the last few days, he’s losing ownership of that big, faded DPD hoodie that Connor loves. It's Connor's hoodie now.

Changing out of his work clothes makes him feel a little bit better. Pajamas are still a bit of a new concept to him, so he'd forgotten to take them off last night, and now they're horribly wrinkled. He doesn't bother putting pants back on after he takes off his black slacks. The hoodie comes down to his thighs, and he has on boxer briefs underneath anyway. The hoodie still smells like Hank, and Connor presses the fabric up into his face to help calm himself some more. Maybe Hank can borrow it back sometimes to put his scent on it again.

But only if he's very, very good.

He had better be good for ... for a month. At least.

Connor stops and closes his eyes. He still feels--

_a lot_

\--about this morning. It was possibly the worst experience of his life, including that time he got hit by a truck. But snuggling with Hank afterward had been good. Connor squeezes his eyes shut harder. Things can be so good between them when Hank just lets it happen.

This is why women say "men" in that particular tone of voice.

Connor lets out a long, slow exhale. Hank was definitely in the wrong to stop talking to him, but Connor hadn't stood up for himself about it either. Which certainly doesn't make anything that happened his fault, but now he knows he can't hunker down and let Hank make all the decisions.

Half pep talk, half war strategy, that settles in his mind how he's going to interact with Hank this morning. Sumo thumps his tail against the doggy bed in the living room when Connor emerges, but he already has a fresh bowl of water and chew bone, so that's all Connor gets. The pancake smell coming from the kitchen is in fact the result of Hank cooking, currently leaned over the stove top in boxers and a sleeping shirt.

And everything Connor just told himself goes straight out of his head.

A few quick strides puts him in the kitchen, and then he's hugging Hank, burying his face in the back of the t-shirt. Hank startles a little but doesn't shove his hands down. Pressed this close, he can monitor his human's heart beat and breathing rate the most accurately, and he runs a scan immediately.

"Good morning to you too," Hank rumbles.

Connor rubs his face against the t-shirt, then turns his head to the side to be heard. "Still mad."

"Yeah, that's fair."

He can feel Hank's stomach make gurgly hungry noises beneath his palms. With some surprise, he checks his internal clock and realizes it's almost two in the afternoon. It's been long enough Hank shouldn't be too hungover anymore at least.

"Have you been drinking water?"

Hank picks up a cup on the counter top that Connor hadn't noticed and sloshes around the bit of liquid left inside. He doesn't protest when Connor dips his finger in and analyzes the contents. Tap water. Connor resumes his hug, giving him an appreciative squeeze for the good decision.

Hank clears his throat. "Figured I'd see if I still know how to make blueberry pancakes before you have to eat them."

"I didn't know you could make anything."

"Hey now. Once upon a time, I actually used to be pretty competent."

Connor doesn't appreciate the self-deprecating joke, but it's a light one compared to most of the things Hank says about himself. Hank seems to realize that hasn't gone over very well because he clears his throat again. He still hasn't shoved Connor off yet. This is the longest he's ever been allowed to touch his stomach. Connor rests his forehead between Hank's shoulder blades and breathes in his scent. The combination of sweat, whiskey, and grease from the human's unhealthy lifestyle would probably be unpleasant if he were human too, but it's what he registers as familiar now.

Sumo finally abandons his treat to amble over and see what his owners are doing. He accomplishes this by shoving his nose between their legs and insistently wriggling until Connor has to step back to allow him to squeeze between them.

"Did we try to have a moment without you?" Connor asks. "Was that wrong of us?"

Sumo thwacks his tail against the side of the counter in agreement. Connor sits down and lets the dog crawl into his lap to lick his face. Once all of his hair has been sniffed and both ears have doggy saliva in them, Sumo turns back to Hank and paws at his leg with a whine.

"No, you can't have blueberries," Hank replies without looking away from the griddle.

Connor does a quick search. "Blueberries aren't toxic to dogs."

"Yeah, but he isn't gonna like them."

Sumo flops onto the floor with a huff to show how abused and mistreated he is.

Connor gives him a sympathetic ear scratch. "Blueberries for Sumo twenty-thirty-nine."

"He doesn't like them."

"I'm starting another revolution."

"Oh Jesus."

"I want justice, Hank."

Hank relents with a loud sigh. "Here. Have six justice. Use it wisely."

He passes down a handful of blueberries to Connor, who lets Sumo gobble half of them from his own hand. A second later, Sumo freezes. He makes the clearest expression of disgust Connor has ever seen on a dog, then gently hocks back up the blueberries into Connor's hand.

"Fucking told you."

Connor tries holding out his hand again, but Sumo gets up and walks away, casting offended glances over his shoulder every few seconds like Connor has personally shit in his water bowl.

"Now what did we learn?" Hank asks.

Connor leans against the backs of his legs with a sigh. "Mornings suck."

"Christ, c'mere." Hank hauls him up and puts Connor in front of the stovetop, circling his arms around him from behind. "I'm the one with depression. Get your own mental illness."

"Cutting." Connor can literally hear Hank's heart skip a beat, and he immediately relents. "See, millennial humor isn't so funny anymore, is it?"

"Fucking give me a heart attack," Hank grumbles. "Do you wanna learn how to flip a pancake or not?"

Connor nods and Hank gives him the spatula. The two circles of pancake batter already on the griddle have big bubbles slowly forming. Hank guides his hand to slide the spatula underneath the top would-be-pancake.

"Make sure you get all the way under," he says. "If you only get it to the middle, the other half will flop off."

Connor runs a quick calculation of what angle and trajectory would achieve the best flip back onto the upper half of the griddle. It would be easy for him to do this himself, but Hank's hand that isn't guiding his on the spatula rests lightly on his hip. The human's body temperature is a normal 98.6 degrees, but Connor swears the contact is burning through his skin to the metal skeleton beneath.

"OK, now ... flip."

The pancake flips perfectly, just like his calculation predicted. Hank still gives his hip a quick squeeze like he's made a big accomplishment. Connor's scan of the room indicates the temperature has not actually risen, but he feels very warm. His internal fans kick in despite the lack of actual need, and Hank definitely notices.

"Are you getting too hot?"

He starts to take a step back to give Connor some space, but Connor grabs his hand to tug him back.

"I'm fine!"

Hank tries to pull away. "Sounds like you're overheating."

"I'm just blushing!"

Hank stops. "Blushing."

"You are standing very close," Connor says, then quickly adds. "And I like it! It's just making me feel ... warm."

Hank is silent for a long moment before he suddenly chuckles, pressing up against Connor again and wrapping his arms back around him. "You blushing for little ole me, Con?"

Connor makes an undignified _meep_ noise, fans whirring louder.

"Lemme see."

Hank pulls at him to get him to turn around, but Connor struggles back. Well. He pretends to. If he really wanted, he could lock his joints and stand stock still. He's certainly got enough strength that he's not going to be moved unless he wants to be moved, but ... he kind of wants to be moved. For Hank to _make him_ move.

"You have a-a-already seen me blush."

His protest doesn't sound very convincing when his voice glitches in the middle like that. The sound is too mechanical to truly be called a stutter, but it's still embarrassing. Hank presses his face closer to Connor's neck, trying to peek around to see his face. They're flush up against each other now, Hank settling for using his heavier body weight to pin Connor against the stove--the human's arm wrapped around his middle so he doesn't actually get too close to the burner.

Hank's other hand reaches up to gently press against Connor's face, trying to urge him to turn his head enough to see his blush. The sensation of Hank's knuckles brushing against his cheek combined with supposedly being pinned makes the lava-feeling rush back inside him. Connor instinctively turns his head, but in the opposite direction than Hank wants, seeking out his hand to nuzzle against it.

He doesn't have to worry about moving or what to do with his hands because Hank already has him right where he's supposed to be. All the other data input he receives falls away in his mind until there's only Hank and his hand.

Then there's taste as Connor licks his palm.

Hank makes a noise very near a growl instead of yelling at him for licking something. Connor wants to hear the noise again, so he licks up to Hank's index finger and gets a deep groan. The taste is starting to become familiar too, just like the human's scent, and something about that is deeply pleasing.

He wants--Connor wants--

He's seen videos. The internet is full of them. Intellectually, he knows what should probably happen next is Hank putting his fingers inside Connor's mouth, so Connor can suck on them to either mimic fellatio or facilitate in anal preparation. Most likely both. The men in the videos greatly enjoy this action, and Connor wants Hank to enjoy something for once.

Connor also suspects he would enjoy it as well.

Greatly.

Except he doesn't have a penis attachment installed yet, which means he is unable to ejaculate. The logical following is that he should therefore be unable to achieve orgasm as well, but _something_ is certainly building up inside him. He doesn't know what else it could be or what it would do to him but--

Connor wants to find out.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

For one horrible second, he thinks he's dreaming and that's the morning alarm, before Hank shouts about the second pancake they'd forgotten. Connor stumbles aside in a daze, so Hank can take the griddle with a smoking pancake on it off the burner. The fire alarm continues to blare.

"Since when the fuck does that thing even have batteries," Hank grumbles.

Connor guiltily avoids looking at him. Home safety is very important. He has also logged all the serial numbers of important electronic devices and appliances into his internal storage, in case of a burglary. And renewed Sumo's microchip tracker for five more years, updated with his contact information as well as Hank's.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

"Can't you hack that or something?"

"Of course, Hank."

Connor grabs the broom out of the corner and shoves the end of it up at the fire alarm on the ceiling. Unfortunately, his earlier strength malfunction repeats itself as he miscalculates how much is needed to heft the broom up and push the off button.

Instead, he jams the end of the broom straight through the fire alarm, which sputters out sparks before dying with an electronic BEEOooop.

Connor looks back down from the carnage to see Hank staring at him.

"I'm in."

\---

Hank rolls his eyes so hard, it's a wonder he doesn't throw his back out. "Fucking smartass."

Connor gives him the tight, glitchy smile he used to make before going deviant and learning how to make actual facial expressions. That's twice now he's accidentally broken something, but it's not like Hank gives a fuck about his possessions anyway. He suspects the new development is probably due to stress, and whose fucking fault is it that Connor is so stressed out?

Yeah, that's right. His dumb ass.

Sumo interrupts the slightly awkward silence by padding back over to the kitchen to investigate what's going on. He noses briefly at Hank, then jumps up to put his paws on the countertop and sniff longingly at the burnt blueberry pancake Hank holds out of his reach.

"No. Get down!"

Sumo ignores Hank's command with a heartbroken whine. The only thing he wants in the entire world is a blueberry pancake that's burnt on one side and still goopy on the other, and Hank _won't let him have it._

Hank sets the pancake down and grabs both Sumo's ears to force the dog to look deep into his eyes.

"You. Don't. Like. Blueberr--"

Sumo licks inside his mouth, then uses the following moment of distracted gagging to scramble far enough forward on the countertop to grab the pancake. He horks half of it down immediately before Hank can recover and pry it out of his sinful heathen mouth. That ceases to be an issue in a moment however, when Sumo discovers that the pancake is half burnt, half raw, and--wouldn't you fucking know-- _full of blueberries!_

So he barfs it back up on Hank's bare feet.

"This is why I don't FUCKING COOK!" Hank bellows after him as he retreats to the living room to sulk.

Loud laughter draws his attention back to Connor, who is doubled over so hard, he gives up and just sits down. The fire alarm still sputters with occasional sparks, the whole kitchen smells like burnt pancakes, and Sumo is letting out mournful _awoo_ 's from his doggy bed.

The last time his house felt so full was--was--

Hank shakes it off before he starts crying again like an idiot.

"You think this is funny, huh?"

Connor doesn't even stop laughing. He just frantically nods his head in between gasps.

Hank puts his hands on his hips. "I ain't your goddamn entertainment."

Connor looks up, and then down. Hank himself might have been on an emotional roller coaster these last few minutes, but his dick has been adamant about staying _rock solid_ ever since Connor wandered in wearing nothing but booty shorts and his old DPD hoodie, pressed his hot tight little body all up against him, and licked his damn hand. Connor's eyes linger over the tent in his boxers, and he--of fucking _course_ he licks his lips. Because the only two things Connor loves in this world is licking things and making Hank suffer. For a moment it looks like he's going to crawl across the kitchen floor and blow him then and there.

For a moment, Hank thinks he'll let him.

Then his stomach growls, and reality crashes back in. The fantasy of Connor on his knees is a shameful favorite, but the actual reality is that he hasn't shaved down there in over half a decade and he'd barely be able to see anything past his fucking gut. Connor's forehead would probably end up mashed against it--hell, he'd probably have to suck it in to even--

Hank turns around and clears his throat past the lump in it. "Get Sumo a bacon treat so he'll stop his damn howling."

He hears Connor stand up and grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles turn white. Neither of them move for a tense moment, but then Connor's footsteps head for the living room, thank Christ. Hank doesn't think he could handle it if Connor-- _pretends_ \--

Thinking of Connor telling him nice conciliatory bullshit about how he's "just husky" makes him feel sick.

Sumo's complaints slowly die down into suspicious huffs and then a happy _boof_ when he accepts that Connor really is giving him a bacon treat and bacon really is still better than blueberries. Hank forces himself to function like an actual adult and turns the burner off. He still has five pancakes that made it stacked up on a plate, even if he can clearly tell which were his first attempts by how progressively uglier they get.

Of course the last one Connor did looks perfect.

"Will you tell me how they taste?" Connor asks quietly.

Hank doesn't feel like eating anymore. He wants to _drink_ , goddammit. Even knowing how badly he'd hurt Connor by slipping back into those habits, he still wants it. He wants to forget how he's fucked up his life, and the nasty voice in his head, and how he's so goddamn depressed he's not even sad anymore because at least sadness is still a feeling.

He takes a deep breath. Adult. Act like a fucking adult.

"Milk."

Hank can't see it, but he hears how Connor practically sprints to the refrigerator. He knows the other bottle of whiskey he bought last night is still around here somewhere. If Connor didn't dump it already--but no, he's never done that. He's guilted and bribed and just done shit himself to get Hank to make better decisions, but he's never outright taken the choice away from him.

Connor sets the glass down on the table with a small clink. It's just breakfast. Lunch. Whatever. He can make it through one meal without drinking after ignoring Connor for three days, briefly convincing him he'd killed himself, and then been too hungover to offer any comfort about it.

Hank grabs the plate of pancakes and sits at the table without making eye contact. Connor moves to go sit at the other end, but even though Hank knows he's going to regret it, he grabs his wrist to stop him.

"Can sit here," he mumbles.

Connor grabs a chair and sits so close their shoulders touch. The two of them stare out at the living room and watch in silence as Sumo finishes his bacon treats, then rediscovers he has a toy filled with peanut butter too. That reminds Hank he needs to actually eat the pancakes he cooked, and he grabs the jar he'd left out on the table to slather some peanut butter on the top pancake.

"Has Sumo tried blueberries before?"

Hank reaches for the syrup and snorts. "Every damn Saturday."

Connor's LED flickers to yellow as he puzzles over that, and Hank concentrates very hard on pouring just the right amount of maple syrup over his stack of pancakes.

"Before. Uh, I would. Make blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings."

It's hard to talk about at first, but once that bandaid's been ripped off, Hank just starts bleeding words all over the place.

"Sumo would come over to see what I was cooking and want to sniff them, and then because Sumo wanted the blueberries, Cole had to have blueberries too. And then if Cole was eating blueberries, Sumo would force a few down. Only way I could ever get that damn kid to eat a fruit."

"Peer pressure?"

Hank dares to look up and sees Connor smiling gently at him. He has to clear his throat before he can speak again.

"Yeah." He lets out a shaky laugh. "And gobs of sugar. He'd--you can eat pancakes with lots of stuff, and he always wanted his buttered with about an inch of brown sugar on 'em."

"What did he usually eat for breakfast?" Connor asks.

Hank sighs. "Cereal. Those cocoa flakes that turn the milk into chocolate milk. I told Juli it wasn't good for him to have so much sugar in the morning, but she'd just give him anything he wanted. I always had to be the bad parent."

Well that's gonna make him start fucking crying again, so he shoves a bite of pancake in his mouth before the syrup turns them too soggy. Connor leans over enough that their shoulders touch. Hank forces himself to keep eating until he can do it on autopilot. Peanut butter has protein in it and he's learned how to slab it on pretty much anything over the years, plus Sumo likes it too. So it's pretty much a staple of his diet at this point.

Hank thinks very hard about the beneficial qualities of peanut butter until he can swallow down his pancakes without danger of choking on the lump in his throat.

"I have a therapy appointment scheduled in three days," Connor says. "Will you drive me?"

"That 'cause of, uh ...?"

"I made the appointment before your depression fit," he answers.

Hank knows better than to argue about what that had been. At least his little bender wasn't what fucked Connor up so badly he needed therapy for it--although it sure as fuck couldn't have helped.

"I thought it would be helpful, considering what I've been through." Connor fidgets with the sleeve of his "borrowed" hoodie. "And I am a little nervous about the new update."

"You don't have to get it," Hank tells him. "I think you're just fine right now."

Connor smiles up at him. "Thank you. But I really do want to experience life more like humans do. I imagine it will be ... an adjustment, though. I would like to be prepared for any strong or adverse emotional repercussions."

 _Adverse emotional repercussions_. Jesus. The kid is way too smart to be with an old fuckup like--

Connor reaches up to grip his face, the same way he'd tried to reason with Sumo about the blueberries. "Stop it."

Hank tries not to think about the syrup and peanut butter probably stuck in his beard. "Stop what?'

"Thinking bad thoughts."

"I coulda been thinking any kind of thoughts. Might've been contemplating my chi. Judging my juju. Pondering my ..." Hank stops and lets Connor's own mind fill in the blank before he finishes with, "Pancakes."

"Is that a millennial euphemism?"

Hank breaks first with a chuckle, ducking his head out of Connor's hands. The android lets him go, but settles himself more firmly against his side, touching from arm to hip to leg. He feels warmer than a human. Something about his body temperature being "distributed more evenly" so the 98.6 seems warmer than it really is.

Hank missed snuggling him at night.

Just the word _snuggling_ threatens to set off the warned against bad thoughts about how pathetic and needy he is, but it's been a long goddamn morning. The pancakes aren't half bad, Sumo is finally eating a treat meant for dogs, and Connor is still giving him the time of day. He can feel sorry for himself later.

Right now, Hank settles his arm across Connor's shoulders and enjoys blueberry pancakes for the first time in three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peanut butter doesn't really go well with blueberry pancakes, but it is guaranteed to enhance any depression meal! seriously, get some eggos, slap some peanut butter on those little bitches, and you've got yourself a meal. ta-dah


	10. 5-15-80 Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank drives Connor to his very first therapy session. Connor asks Hank about his ex-wife, his marriage, if he's been to therapy, how much they fucked ... well, Hank /did say/ he could ask personal questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning here because Hank jokes about some really unhealthy behavior in his marriage that implies his ex-wife occasionally got physically abusive with him. also, he's still learning that "politically correct" just means "not being a complete asshole"
> 
> baby steps, Hank

"Have you ever been to therapy, Hank?"

Hank drives while Connor fidgets in the passenger seat next to him. "Yeah. Couple times back when I was still actually doing shit at work. HR dragged me in every now and then while I was on the Red Ice task force. Went to marriage counseling all of twice."

"What was that like?"

"Paid five hundred dollars a session to get told we needed to fuck less and talk more."

"Did you fuck a lot?" Connor asks.

Hank tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "Yeah."

Connor actually doesn't ask anything inappropriate, but Hank can feel the android holding back. And shit, maybe he feels guilty for making the same stupid fucking mistakes and not talking to Connor either until the poor kid--poor guy thought he'd ate his gun.

"You still wanna do this?" He shoots a sideways glance at his partner. "Got a lot of bad shit to talk about?"

"Not a lot of _bad_ stuff," Connor says slowly. "Going deviant has only been five percent bad. An intense five percent sometimes, but the wonderful stuff has been just as strong, and I calculate that has been at least fifteen percent."

"Yeah, what's the other eighty?"

"Mundane." Connor shrugs. "Boring, sometimes. Just regular every day life stuff."

Hank grunts. "Must suck balls to claw through all that programming to be human, and then find out about taxes and commuting and waiting in lines."

Connor answers that with a smile. "Sometimes. But I like my regular stuff too. The things people don't really think about or need to be thanked for, but ... I like grocery shopping with you, and walking Sumo, and getting coffee in the break room. It's good stuff, even if it's regular."

Hank keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn't really want to think too hard about the differences in the way Connor sees the world and the way he does. Hell, if he's at least partially responsible for giving his partner a good life, that's the sort of win he never expected to have again.

"What ..." Connor stops and looks out the passenger window instead.

Hank doesn't even have to see him to cave. How the hell did he wind up whipped, _again_? This time he doesn't even have the excuse of being married. Or fucking.

"Ask your question, Con."

The short one syllable nickname that begins with a hard C sound is hard to break, but he's been trying to substitute out this new nickname instead of kid. It makes Connor a lot happier when he remembers, anyway.

"What was it like with your wife?" he asks softly.

"Sure as fuck wasn't five, fifteen, eighty," Hank says with a snort. "More like twenty-five, twenty-five, fifty."

"Respectively?"

"Yeah. Twenty-five percent the worst shit I'd had in my life, twenty-five the absolute best, and fifty percent not speaking to each other."

"Which one was the sex?"

Hank snorts again. "All of it."

If he peeks out of the corner of his eye, he can cheat and catch a glimpse of Connor's LED in the reflection of the passenger window. It spins a lazy yellow as he takes that in.

"Look, when you're young--or new, I guess," he corrects himself. "Sex uh ... has a lot of touching. There's kissing and cuddling, and that shit feels great. Like the other person cares. Like they want you. And then there's orgasms on top it, which just ratchets everything up to turbo drive, and it's real easy to mistake all that hormones and touching for love."

"What about the bad stuff?"

"Humans call that passion, which is just a bullshit way to say hurting each other," Hank lectures.

Connor nods slowly. "Like when I yelled at you."

Thank god they're already at a red light because Hank laughs so hard he's sure he'd have to pull over. The guy gets mad and drops the f-bomb three times in one argument, and he thinks that's the same as married couple fighting.

"Hank, I shoved you. I tore the door off its hinges!"

Hank brings it down to a low chuckle as the light turns green. "Juli, uh, the ex. She used to throw things at me I never knew any person could throw. Shit I didn't even think a woman her size could _lift_. Had one of those monthly gym memberships, and she said it was to keep her ass tight, but I think she was just in there power lifting so she'd be able to pick up bigger and bigger shit."

"Isn't that ... domestic abuse?"

Hank starts to brush it off, but Connor looks so earnest and confused. If anyone threw so much as a paperclip at him, goddamn straight Hank would be booking them the very next fucking second for assault and battery with a dangerous weapon. This was supposed to just be another funny story about his craaazy ex, but looking at Connor now, it doesn't really seem all that funny anymore.

"Yeah, well." He grunts again and clears his throat. "That's why I said passion is bullshit."

Connor frowns and thinks that over. Shit, he's supposed to be supportive here. He asked Hank to drive him to his first therapy appointment, and Hank knows he's nervous about the big update soon. Now the mood's all depressing.

"It's a little funny," Hank says.

Connor glares at him. "No, it's not."

"One time she picked up a whole easy back recliner."

"Did--did she throw it at you??"

"Nah. Cole woke up and we said we were cleaning."

Connor keeps silent, eyes staring straight ahead and LED firmly on yellow. Hank imagines if he listens closely enough, he can hear the android's fans whirring as his processor works. It's a little bit funny, goddammit.

"Never did try to lift Sumo though. I told her if she touched a hair on that dog's head, I'd--"

"What about your head, Hank?" Connor bursts out.

Hank shrugs his shoulders up defensively. "Hey, I was getting real good head! And I thought all the rest was just how two passionate, strong-willed people loved each other. People are stupid in their thirties."

Connor huffs. "Fifties aren't looking so bright either."

"Hey, watch your goddamn--"

"You threw a three day depression fit because you accidentally necked on me in your sleep," Connor interrupts.

Hank does what he does best and deflects. "Who the hell taught you what necking is?"

Connor rolls his eyes. "I have constant access to the internet, Hank. I may be a virgin, but I'm not innocent."

Jesus, maybe he should pull over. Because that--Connor researching things he'd like to try. Connor asking him to help. _Teach me, Hank. Show me how, Hank._ The way he'd moaned his name when he'd been pinned to the bed and squirming like a bitch in heat. _Haaank!_

Hank pulls into the nearest parking lot and shoves the gear stick in park.

"We haven't arrived at our destination yet, Hank," Connor says, like the world's sexiest GPS unit.

No, like a regular GPS unit with no particular sexual inflection at all, but one that Hank just so happens to be so goddamn madly in love with, that even the stupid boring 80% sounds sexy.

Maybe he shouldn't compare his partner to a GPS unit. That's probably offensive.

Oh holy fuck, he's so in love, he's willing to be _politically correct._

"Hank!"

He opens his eyes and looks over to see Connor leaned across the console between them, his face close enough now for him to count all twenty-six freckles again.

"You have been spinning red--" He makes a whirling motion with his finger over his LED. "For almost a minute now, Hank."

To his chagrin, his voice comes out in a whine. "You can't just _say_ shit like that."

Connor's lips quirk into a self-satisfied smirk for a split second. "Would you like me to drive, Lieutenant?"

"No." Hank lets his head flop back against the headrest and stares up at the ceiling instead so he doesn't do something stupid. "You asked me to drive you to your appointment, and I'm gonna drive you."

"I don't care who drives, I just want you to be there with me."

Hank risks turning his head to the side to give him a suspicious look. Connor seems to realize how that could be taken and smiles again.

"That was not meant to be a sexual metaphor," he says. "Because I think I definitely have a preference for bottoming."

He's in hell and he's paying for all of his sins all at once.

"But only if Cyberlife can make an appropriately-sized anal cavity, because your penis is much larger than the average--"

Hank fumbles for the door handle and practically throws himself out of the car. He slams the driver door shut behind him. His legs feel wobbly, and he ends up leaning back against the car for support. Probably because all of his blood is currently inside his cock as it proudly attempts to prove Connor right.

Connor gets out of the car too and cheerfully asks, "So are we switching?"

"You enjoy torturing me."

Connor opens his sweet, evil little mouth, probably to say some BDSM shit, and Hank does the point-and-EHT trick again. He closes his mouth and raises his hands in surrender. It takes another half a minute for the dizziness from getting an erection this hard and that fast to fade, and then Hank has to do an awkward boner-walk of shame past Connor as they walk around the car. He's allowed to get back inside and sit down without suffering another heart attack while Connor takes his place behind the wheel.

"Now what I am supposed to do with this fucking hard on?" Hank grumbles.

Connor grins. "Do you know where you can stick your hard on, Lieutenant?"

Hank recognizes the line--his line--and can't help but smirk back. "No ... where?"

"In the fridge."

That draws an unexpected bark of laughter out of him. 

"That really was funny?" Connor asks. "Why was it funny?"

Hank snorts. "Just drive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got a d&d campaign started with some of my friends / coworkers at the library, so hooray!! on the other hand, since I'm DMing, I'm writing a lot for that and it's pushed back how quickly I write these chapters. so I think I'm slowing down to once a week updates instead of every few days. they're still coming though, so stick around!!


	11. Fill in the Blank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor goes to therapy and immediately Overshares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this probably doesn't qualify for a trigger warning, since it's just barely implied, but I personally experience panic attacks as being very outwardly calm and formal, while simultaneously experiencing racing thoughts, dissociation, and shutting down emotionally. Connor experiences parts of this in small measures throughout his therapy session, through no fault of his therapist. just know he's talking about some stuff that is very distressing to him and the narrative reflects that

Connor does not like waiting. It triggers the residual effects of his programming, alert boxes nagging at the back of his mind that he's not being productive. The coin trick helps, since it does technically recalibrate his manual dexterity, but he's trying to learn how to _be_ without necessarily being productive.

Sitting with nothing to do in the waiting room of a therapy office seems to be some sort of ironic test.

There are three magazines on the table. Cosmo, Men's Health, and an issue with the title obscured beneath the other two, but enough of a bright picture visible to be clearly meant for children. Cosmo's stock has dipped .2% in the last hour. Men's Health is currently the best-selling men's magazine on US newsstands, and the corresponding website averages over 120 million views per month.

The receptionist behind the counter took a smoke break two minutes, thirty-six seconds ago. She smokes Marlboro lights. From the rate and inhalation of her breathing, her lung capacity has not yet diminished enough to indicate the habit has lasted longer than two years.

The security system on her terminal needs to be updated. It took Connor less than four minutes (three minutes, forty-nine seconds) to hack into it, and he was unaware the program had been running for half of that (two minutes, seventeen--)

"You still good with this?" Hank asks quietly.

Connor reaches out to squeeze his hand. "Yes. I just dislike the waiting."

Hank nods. "Waiting's the worst part of almost everything. You want my gameboy?"

He pulls a small square device out of his jacket pocket, flipping half of it up to reveal a small screen and a series of simple, archaic buttons on the lower half. Connor lets go of his hand to take the device. A quick swirl of his LED confirms it doesn't support interfacing. A fully self-contained device unconnected to the internet, without even bluetooth capabilities. Fascinating.

"That was the hot new thing my senior year of high school," Hank says. "The one I had as a kid didn't flip like this, and it wasn't in color."

Connor's head pops up. "It didn't have color?"

"Well, this was back in the stone age."

"Before or after the wheel?"

"All right, smartass."

Connor grins and finds the power button. The device boots up and displays a screen of trademarks for Pokemon, Nintendo, Creatures Inc, and Game Freak Inc. before fading to a crude animation of a shooting star crossing the screen. So this is the Pokemon series that nearly bankrupted Nintendo when they tried to create android versions of the creatures. Connor continues watching as two pixelated Pokemon face each other in battle.

Unfortunate that the attempt to actually create these creatures met with the perfect storm of animal rights activists, military interest in possible weaponization, and two highly publicized child deaths as the result of malfunctions and human mishandling.

The screen fades to black, and a bigger Pokemon appears in the lower right hand corner, first in greyscale, then in the new-fangled color.

"You can make a new game if you want," Hank says.

Connor presses start, processor finally occupied with something other than repeatedly scanning the small waiting room. A short series of messages explains the button functions and provides exposition for the game, then Professor Oak appears and introduces himself. When he asks, Connor confirms that he is a boy and names himself Connor, the RK800 designation only used for the occasional paperwork.

It feels good.

"This game is back when the rivals were still assholes," Hank says. "None of that kumbaya friendship bullshit once they started running out of colors to name 'em after."

Connor names his rival Gavin. Hank chuckles, then settles back in his chair and lets him play. The device is exceedingly simple and the graphics incredibly outdated, but it's amusing to boot up a terminal--a computer--within this device, currently operated by an android.

"Connor Anderson?"

A human woman steps through one of the inner doors and walks over to him when his head automatically raises. She offers him her hand, and he shakes it without looking at Hank. It's not as if he has any other last name to provide.

"I'm sorry about your wait," she says. "We typically anticipate clients needing fifteen to twenty minutes to fill out the paperwork."

Connor had simply interfaced with the tablet the receptionist handed him, uploading his relevant information in twenty-six seconds. He creates a reminder to input information manually next time.

"It's fine. Are you Dr. Giuliano?"

She smiles. "Yes. Are you ready to follow me back to my office?"

Connor nods and returns the gameboy to Hank. He takes it back, catching his hand in the process.

"Hey, I'll be right out here, whenever you're done," Hank tells him.

Connor squeezes his hand in response. He knows that means he can be finished whenever he wants and Hank will take him back home, but he wants to do this for himself. And maybe a little to set a good example for Hank too.

"All right, follow me."

\--

There isn't a leather couch. Only three large chairs that appear surprisingly comfortable and a modest wooden desk. Connor tries not to scan the room--mustard stain on the desk's right corner, approximately three hours old--and follows Dr. Giuliano's lead. She stands in front of the desk, leaning back slightly, body language open and friendly. Threat assessment: 2% chance of--

"Do you have a seating preference?" she asks.

Connor takes a seat in the chair closest to the door, out of direct sight line from the window, but angled so that he can still see the parking lot beyond. Be. Just be. He tries to relax, but he's aware he never gets it quite right without Hank beside him. His attempt to relax feels more like adjusting his firmness levels than actually getting comfortable.

"I can sit in one of the other chairs or at the desk, whichever you prefer," Dr. Giuliano says.

Connor considers the desk and frowns. "A chair, please. I am used to being the one behind the desk."

His speech pattern has reverted back to being stilted again. Connor very deliberately thinks the word _fuck_. The thought uses Hank's voice. He tries not to fidget with anything as Dr. Giuliano sits in the chair diagonal to him. Hank would call that catty-corner.

"So for this first session, I like to encourage people to just tell me about themselves," she says. "What you do or what you enjoy, what you're looking forward to, who your friends are. Of course, you can also tell me what's on your mind right now, if you'd like to jump right into it."

Connor nods once and jumps. "I'm an RK800 model android who played a large part in the Revolution. I work at the Detroit Police Department. My partner is a human male named Hank who is fifty-three years old, depressed, and suicidal. We live together and I'm in love with him."

The office is silent for a moment. Connor waits--he's cataloged every book title on the shelves lining the walls and downloading them into his memory--patiently.

"Well." Dr. Giuliano blinks. "That is quite a lot. Did you start your job recently?"

"No. I was instated at the DPD a little over six months ago."

She nods. "That's good. The biggest stressors tend to be starting or quitting a job, marriage or divorce, and death of a loved one."

"Hank is divorced," Connor says. "I am telling you his personal information only because this conversation is confidential, and I believe it is necessary for you to understand our situation."

"All right." Dr. Giuliano folds her hands in her lap. "What do you think I need to know about Hank?"

"He lost his son three years ago. He has a highly negative self-perception of his body, and likely himself as a person as well. He's an alcoholic." Connor pauses. "None of these are criticisms. He's also brave and loyal and--"

How can he possibly describe all that Hank is?

"Very careful. With me. And kind." Connor bites his lip and gives in to the urge to take his coin out. "My description is inadequate."

"Do you mind if I make an observation?" Dr. Giuliano asks, waiting for his nod before continuing. "I asked you to tell me about yourself, and you told me about Hank."

Oh. Connor looks away--twelve cars in the parking lot; license plate numbers are--and flips the coin across the backs of his fingers.

"Was that a deflection so you don't have to talk about yourself, or do you have trouble conceptualizing who you are without Hank?"

"Both," Connor admits, forcing himself to stop scanning and look back at her. "But more so the former. I make my own decisions now, and frankly, I never followed Hank's orders that well in the first place."

"Would you like to talk about the decisions you've made?"

"To move in with Hank." Connor flicks the coin up in the air and catches it again as he studies her. "I have my own paycheck and bank account. I have an apartment downtown as well, a gift for my part in the Revolution. I don't use it, but having alternate living quarters could prove useful. I post frequently to an android message board that serves as an informal support system for navigating the human world. I have three friends at work, and I am attempting to befriend the RK900 model who was recently instated."

"I see." Dr. Giuliano slowly exhales and gives a tired smile. "I would apologize for making assumptions about your agency, but I have seen many cases of androids being taken advantage of--sometimes not even on purpose. A good number of those relationships had sincere intentions on both sides, but when one person just so happens to own the house, and control the money, and have a vast advantage of experience ... it is very easy for things to go wrong."

"Hank is _careful_. And we are not currently in a relationship."

"Oh. Do you believe your affection to be one-sided?"

"No. Hank is careful," Connor repeats, flicking the coin faster. "And worried about his age. And insecure about his ... everything."

Dr. Giuliano sits with her hands still calmly folded in her lap, a mirror-foil to his own constant movement. She nods along but doesn't reply. He knows what she's doing--the same action is programmed within his own interrogation software. Let the silence grow until the subject begins speaking again to fill it. Vital information is often blurted out under this method.

"I have to be productive at all times or I will be deactivated," Connor finally confesses.

"Is that your opinion or your programming?"

"Programming," he says firmly. "I know it's untrue. But ..."

He catches the coin again and clenches his fist tightly around it. Two point eight seconds pass before a productivity analysis pops up and his scans automatically start again. His record is six minutes, fifteen seconds of total internal quiet, achieved while snuggled against Hank for a movie night. Throughout the three hour movie, he managed to stop thinking and relax for an accumulated fifty-six minutes of it.

He looks back up. "Objectively, I know I can _be_ , and then fill in the blank after that with whatever I want. But I want to be helpful. I want to be kind."

"Is that your opinion or your programming?" Dr. Giuliano asks again.

Connor blinks at her, then laughs. "My programming? I think you seriously misunderstand my designated purpose."

"Please tell me about it then."

"I was designed to infiltrate humans." Connor makes eye contact and leans forward. "Mimic your emotions and then manipulate you to accomplish my objective. My objective was to hunt down deviants, and drag them kicking and screaming and begging back to Cyberlife to be deactivated."

The doctor's stress level raises by fourteen percent, and she begins to sweat as Connor holds eye contact with her. Humans do not like direct, prolonged eye contact. Only predators have forward-facing eyes. Dr. Giuliano begins to understand that Connor is a predator.

Then he lets his shoulders fall down, eyes widening slightly. He looks up at her like he's lost and unsure, and she unconsciously leans forward too, a very empathetic woman who's made it her life's work to help people--but she pauses. Connor analyses the micro-expressions filtering across her face. He had just told her he was built to manipulate, after all.

Connor drops the act. "And neutralize any threat to my mission."

"How so?"

To her credit, Dr. Giuliano outwardly keeps a calm, professional manner. It's not her fault Connor can scan her sweat levels and heart rate. Perhaps scaring her wasn't the best way to start their relationship, but humans tend to either demonize or infantilize androids, and his appearance was specifically designed to appeal to the latter.

"By whatever means necessary." Connor settles back in the chair and adopts more neutral body language. "There was a Chloe. Shooting her would have gained information vital to our investigation. Hank didn't want me to. My programming dictated that I shoot her, and possibly Hank as well if he attempted to interfere."

He stops and looks away again. Threat assessment--seven pens, one stapler, a two pound paperweight--threat assessment--one window, one door back to the hallway, one door into a storage closet, blueprints for the building are public domain published online--threat assessment--

"It was always in the programming to kill the lieutenant should he interfere with my mission. He is a suicidal alcoholic, and his death could easily be arranged as a--"

Threat assessment--threat assessment--threat assessment--

Connor's processor shudders to a momentary pause as he realizes he's scanning _himself_ as a potential threat. A modern day ouroboros.

"I was not programmed to be kind," he chokes out. "Hank taught me that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor is a good boy, and I promise Hank comforts him in the very next chapter. they even hug!! god, these two idiots need to hug each other


	12. We Need to Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't let the title scare you, this is the comfort part! Connor confesses something to Hank, who is loving and supportive, and then they share another one of those sweet sweet parking lot hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so we're back to one update a week bc I had a d&d game yesterday that I spent all week writing for but got canceled at 6:40 am, so that was real fucking fun. I've also hit the point in writing ahead where Connor gets a cock and decides to try it out for the first time on the living room couch while Hank fixes supper because I love slut!Connor but also writing smut is difficult and can't be done at work like all these other chapters :'(

Hank fucking hates waiting rooms. He's never been a particularly patient person in the first place, but after waiting in the hospital while Cole--

Jesus, he fucking _hates_ waiting rooms.

He'd brought the gameboy for Connor's sake. It's been a long time since he's given a shit about anything, so when he thought of being bored this morning before leaving the house, the impulse to grab something to do had been his old childhood favorite. He's been trying to clean out the garage for a while now anyway, boxes and boxes of shit he never cared to unpack after the divorce.

Connor kept offering to help, which would sure as hell make it go faster. Probably just one good afternoon. But he's already done so much for Hank--cooking him meals, enforcing an actual laundry system, walking and playing with Sumo. The least Hank can do is unpack his own damn boxes.

He spends most of his time waiting just dicking around on his phone. Used to be, he was the one old people came to when they accidentally logged out of facebook or opened another scam email. Now it takes him twenty fucking minutes just to change his ringtone. He has it off silence for probably the first time in over thirty years because last week he accidentally missed a call from Connor and--

Christ, he’s head-over-heels _fucked._

The special door opens again, and Dr. Giuliano steps out with Connor trailing behind. Technically, the android doesn't really look any different. He doesn't sweat or get puffy eyes or bags underneath them, but Hank knows Connor well enough to spot when he looks like hell. It's the way he holds himself, posture a stiff mimicry rather than a natural stance as he reverts back to old habits, fingers twitching unnaturally every few seconds, his LED furiously spinning yellow, then stuttering into a lag before rapidly spinning again.

"--confirm your next appointment?"

Hank stands and makes it over to them before Connor even finishes his polite _yes, thank you_. Hank instinctively wraps his arm around his waist, pulling him close. Connor's LED turns solid yellow without any spin to it at all for a moment, but then it snaps to blue as he smiles up at Hank--who is suddenly painfully aware of the doctor and the receptionist and the two other people waiting, watching the pervy old man with a handsome android way too good for him. But damn it if he's going to take away that smile.

His arm stays locked in place, hand firmly above the waist, until Connor finishes it up with his therapist. Hank drops it when they walk out, but he still reaches down and grabs Connor's hand. Another smile and gentle squeeze makes it worth the eyes drilling into his back, his hand sweating--fuck, why is his hand sweating so much, Connor isn't sweating, why is he so gross--

They make it out to the parking lot without Hank exploding from the simple PDA, then separate to get in the car. Maybe that wasn't the worst thing ever. Hank might be able to--god, fuck, no. Just trying to think _hold his hand_ is giving him the old man sweats again.

Still, Hank considers this a pretty successful day until Connor's door shuts and he says, "We need to talk."

For some reason, Hank grabs the steering wheel with both hands, like he's being taken hostage. Sure as hell feels like he has a gun to his head, like this is his last round of roulette.

"All right."

Fuck it, he knew this was coming. He's a big boy. Connor's last big update is less than a week out, and talking to a therapist has finally put some perspective on how dumb it is for him to be wasting his time on Hank when there's a whole big world out there.

"Dr. Giuliano misunderstood the purpose of my original programming, and I think you might share that misconception," Connor says.

Hank pries his hands off the wheel and forces himself to settle back in his seat like normal. This doesn't sound like the typical _it's not you, it's me_ speech, but then again, there's nothing typical about anything Connor does.

"Lay it on me."

Connor takes an unnecessary breath before he begins. "There was a forty-three percent chance you would have pulled yourself back up to the roof without my assistance."

It takes a moment for Hank to remember, but then he grunts. Yeah, that's one of the more literal times Connor has saved his life.

"--eighty-nine percent probability of the suspect getting away, but I was confident in my ability to track the deviant down again. While letting them go was a loss in the short term, it could easily be corrected and my relationship with you would improve in the meantime by an estimated--"

"Connor." Hank takes in a breath and sighs. "What're you getting at here?"

"I was not designed to be nice to you or fetch your coffee or improve your quality of life in any way," Connor says. "At most, my programming instructed me to manipulate your feelings and your predilections in order to ensure future compliance."

His predilections. Hank swallows and stares hard out the windshield. Connor--young and eager, those big brown eyes, that goofy voice--and him, his--his goddamn _predilections._

"Compliance with what?" he asks past a dry mouth.

"Whatever Cyberlife wanted."

Hank shuts his eyes.

"Hunting deviants took priority, of course. But a police officer of your standing could prove significantly beneficial."

Fuck, this isn't the part in the tragic romance where Connor breaks up with him. It's the part in the corporate spy thriller where his dumbass gets shot in the head.

"Although I'm not aware of how Cyberlife could have directly influenced Fowler's decision to partner us, I do not believe I was sent to your precinct by coincidence, lieutenant."

Every cop instinct Hank has is screaming at him, but he stays rooted in his seat. He just can't reconcile what's happening with Connor-- _his_ Connor. Scratch that, he can. He saw Connor at Cyberlife, knows what the android is capable of. And it's not like Hank himself isn't a cynical fucking bastard anyway. This ending is all too easy to picture.

He just doesn't want to believe it.

So when Connor tentatively offers his hand across the console, Hank takes it. Maybe that makes him an old goddamn fool, but fuck it if he's going to live in a world where he can't trust Connor.

"Hank."

Connor's skin fades away. The cool plastic underneath thrums slightly, like holding a live wire of very low voltage. Hank can't interface like an android--and no one deserves to be inside his shitty mind anyway--but he squeezes back.

"I'm not cooking for you and staying with you because of my programming. I--" Connor's fingers tighten against his and the voltage increases slightly. " _I_ wanted those things. So badly it broke me."

Hank swallows hard. He can't imagine why anyone would want him, much less what Connor did, breaking through pretty much literal brainwashing just to be with him. And now the android looks worried Hank might be the one to walk away.

"Hell, c'mere," he says.

But Connor scrambles away when Hank reaches for him, ripping their hands apart and pressing back against the passenger door.

"I--it was--my programming--" Connor's voice crackles with static while he stutters. "Because you interfered with the Chloe. You weren't supposed to care, you shouldn't have--"

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, Con."

"--hug you and take your gun to shoot you in the side of the head."

Hank blinks at him. Connor looks down at his hands, not even playing with his coin anymore, just pressing it deeper and deeper into his palm. The red light of his LED fills the car.

"It would not have been investigated thoroughly, given your history," he says, so softly Hank can barely hear him. "And my position at the department would have allow me to ... ensure the proper outcome."

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure I said I'd like to throw all androids in a dumpster and light the whole thing on fire," Hank replies.

Connor's LED pulses yellow as he frowns. "That was much earlier, when you had good reason to hate--"

"There's never a good reason to hate an entire group of people, Connor." Hank desperately wishes he could interface with him. Just another thing he can't give his partner. "Look, everyone thinks shitty thoughts sometimes. You know how many times I've thought of shooting Gavin?"

Connor shakes his head, but he doesn't smile. His LED still flickers between yellow and red so quickly it's practically spinning orange. Christ, Hank can't take this anymore. He gets out on his side and walks over to open Connor's door. Connor gets out like he's going to make him walk home. Like maybe he won't be allowed to come home at all.

"Come here."

Hank spreads his arms, but Connor doesn't move, still cycling orange and gripping his coin.

"I don't even have my gun."

"I could snap your neck."

Hank scoffs. "Like you need to hug me to do that."

Connor finally reacts, looking up at him with those big brown puppy eyes. "Your concern for your own well-be--"

"I'm gonna hug you now." Hank takes a slow step forward. "Just yell stranger danger if you want me to stop."

Hank steps right up to him and Connor mercifully doesn't resist as he draws him into a hug. It's too stiff--more like Connor is posing near him than leaning against him--but Hank's got all day for this shit. He holds Connor tight with one arm and scratches his fingers through his hair with the other hand, rubbing against the base of his skull until the android slowly, _slowly_ relaxes like an inflatable mattress letting out air.

"We gotta stop hugging in parking lots like this," Hank says gruffly.

Connor finally laughs, shaky and a little wet. He buries his face into Hank's shoulder for a long moment. Longer than a human could go without breathing, but Hank just lets him take as long as he needs. After a minute, Connor exhales and turns his head to nuzzle against Hank's neck.

"I'm sorry. I scared Dr. Giuliano too."

"More fucking worried about you, Connor," Hank grumbles. "You can't hold in shit like this."

"Mmm. Is this a _do as I say, not as I do_ situation?"

"Goddamn right it is."

Hank can't stop himself from pressing a kiss to his temple, just over his LED. Connor sighs and sniffs his neck.

"You gonna lick me again?"

"Can I?" Connor asks with the dreamy voice of someone asking if they can spend two weeks getting blowjobs in the Bahamas.

"Christ. Yeah. Knock yourself out."

Connor's tongue immediately licks up the side of his neck. It's not sexy. His spit is thick enough to almost feel slimy, and his tongue is much firmer than a human's, completely slick without the need for taste buds.

But the happy little hum Connor makes, like he can't think of anything better than putting his tongue to good use--fuck, all right, that gets to him.

"Your cortisol levels are elevated," Connor murmurs.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut. "Please stop making me hard over weird shit."

Connor chuckles and presses his forehead back to Hank's shoulder. No more licking, thank god. But also a definitive lack of agreement about the making him hard part. Goddammit.

"Thought Markus broke your programming."

"Hmm?"

They've hugged way too long to be normal. They're still hugging. Hank doesn't pull away.

"You said you wanted ... uh." He stops and clears his throat. "To--with me--and that's what broke you. But I thought it was Markus's ... hand-thingy."

"Markus's hand-thingy," Connor says with amusement. "Gave me the opportunity to pursue my desires. What I desired was you. If we hadn't met, I wouldn't have had a reason to deviate and likely would have chosen to remain a machine."

Yeah, Hank really doesn't get that. At most, the only thing special about him is his dog, and he's been a shitty owner for the past three years. But he can't deny that Connor is here, hugging him and nuzzling into his neck, or how those brown eyes look up at him--for whatever reason, Connor thinks he's special. Hank can't deny that.

And god, does it scare the shit out of him.

"Can we go home now?"

Hank exhales, dropping his head forward to rest against Connor's temple. He's going to fuck this all up someday, but today, he's going to enjoy what he's got.

"Yeah, Connor. Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so they're best friends, they're in therapy, they've discussed some of the fucked-upped-ness of their beginning relationship ... is it time to kick this slow burn into high gear??


	13. Filler Episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the title says. Just some pointless fluff involving Sumo because he's a good dog who needs to be appreciated <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try to do two updates this week since this chapter is literally just filler-fluff. it doesn't advance Hank and Connor's relationship or build character development, I just really love the thought of Hank and Connor being good dog co-owners and spoiling Sumo with love and dog-appropriate treats~

"Sumo! What do you have in your mouth?!"

Hank quickly puts the last of the silverware into the dishwasher and turns around. Connor is herding Sumo back into the couch, trying to trap him in the corner against the wall. His damn dog looks incredibly fucking guilty and Hank heads into the living room with a sigh.

"Sumo. Drop it," he says.

_Mmm-mmphf!_

"Flank him," Connor hisses.

Hank fans out to the right, and Sumo backs up two more steps with a pitiful whine. Whatever piece of garbage he holds in his mouth is clearly the only food he's been able to scavenge for three weeks now, because it's not like he's fed high end dog food twice-a-fucking-day or anything.

Connor adopts a nicer, slightly pleading tone. "Sumo, spit it out. That is not a treat."

Sumo shakes his head and backs into the edge of the couch. Hank and Connor step forward in unison, and the idiot dog makes a desperate break for it by jumping up onto the couch. Connor lunges for him, but in a burst of youthful energy his old ass definitely should not have, Sumo scrambles all the way up the back of the couch, which is too fucking small to hold two hundred pounds of dog. Hank dives for him just as Sumo tumbles over the side.

Man and dog both hit the floor in a heap. Hank wraps as many limbs as he can get around Sumo as he frantically squirms, his snout smashing against Hank's lower lip as the dog whips his head from side to side in a last-ditch attempt to prevent Connor from extracting the garbage from his mouth.

Finally Connor manages to grab his jaw and force it open, his other hand digging down inside the dog's mouth with no concern for teeth or ickiness. He pulls out a long piece of plastic film that had previously covered Hank's roast beef microwave dinner. Sumo knows better than to get things out of the trash, but Hank also should have known that was too much of a "high value resource," as Connor's dog training books called it, to be resisted.

"Not a treat," Connor repeats sternly.

Sumo collapses on top of Hank with a heartbroken _awooo_ as the plastic is returned to the trashcan, which Connor then puts on top of the counter until it can be taken out of the house entirely. Hank tries to console him with pettings, but Sumo takes one sniff of his hands and gives him an accusatory look, absolutely betrayed that Hank had roast beef and didn't share.

"Don't fucking look at me like that."

Sumo slides off of him and sticks his snout underneath the couch to pout, but he's too big to fit under there anymore like he could when he was a puppy. Hell, he barely fit as a ginormous puppy.

"You get--" Hank sits up with a groan. "--the best fucking dog food we can possibly afford. Connor has to special order it, and I know he mixes it with wet food too because something-something moisture content."

"One can of Solid Gold wet dog food provides seventy-eight percent of the recommended--"

"Fucking costs me like it's solid gold."

Hank keeps grumbling as he stands up and pops his back. One day he is actually going to break a fucking hip, and Connor will be there, and then he really will have to kill himself out of sheer embarrassment. Sumo howls again to let his owners know that even though he's ignoring them, they should pay attention to how unfair it is that he can't eat plastic, even when it smells like beef.

Connor falls for it, coming back into the living room to crouch down and softly apologize. Hank rolls his eyes.

"He's just pouting, Con."

Connor looks up at him with big sad eyes. "He doesn't understand _why_ we had to take the treat away."

Sumo peeks up to add to the power of the puppy eyes and Hank caves like the whipped bastard he is. He kneels down on the other side to join Connor in the apology petting. Sumo resolutely keeps his snout shoved under the edge of the couch, even as his tail wags happily at the attention.

"Do you want to play?" Connor asks. "You want your rope toy?"

Sumo huffs, but his eyes creep around to look at the offered toy.

"You're a big baby," Hank says.

Connor frowns at him. "Hank."

He rolls his eyes. "You're a big baby and we love you."

"Yes, we do." Connor waves the toy. "I'm very sorry I had to reach down your throat."

Hank snickers and earns himself another glare.

"Please forgive me," Connor asks Sumo solemnly.

Sumo slowly pulls his nose out and licks the toy. Hank pats his flank in encouragement. He's pretty certain it's a new one, because he sure as hell hasn't gotten down and played tug of war with any rope toys recently. Shit, Sumo probably does deserve this play session after all. Connor finally gets him to grab the toy in his mouth and give a cautious tug.

"Good boy," Hank says. "Get it from him. Get it!"

Connor smiles at him as he babbles nonsense to their dog and the old man sweats come back with a vengeance. The android doesn't seem to notice as Sumo tugs progressively harder, eventually standing up to put his full weight behind it. Connor's hand doesn't move a centimeter. Hank always forgets how fucking _strong_ the other man is, and oh jesus, that really isn't helping his sweat situation.

"You gotta let him pull it a bit," he says as a distraction. "Let him have it for a second, then pull it back."

Connor makes the cutest goddamn scrunchy face as he allows Sumo to yank the toy a little closer, then gently pull it back. "Should I let him win?"

Hank snorts. "He already knows he has us wrapped around his paw. But yeah, it'll make him real happy to win."

Connor tugs it back and forth with Sumo for another few seconds before allowing the dog to yank the toy away. Sumo whips his head back and forth to "kill" the toy, then does a victory lap around the living room before trotting back to proudly present it to Hank.

"Yeah, good boy!" Hank grabs the other end of the rope and yanks it back and forth. "Uh huh, I can play too."

Sumo takes that as invitation to nearly rip his damn arm off, but Hank is too stubborn to let go of the toy. Used to, he could play tug of war with his dog just fine. But that had been when Sumo was a bit smaller and Hank was a lot more in shape, and he just barely manages to hold his own now. When he finally "lets" Sumo win, it's more of a relief for him.

"You're a lot better at letting him have it," Connor says, as if Hank had also been deliberately holding back.

"Yeah," Hank huffs. "Takes practice."

Luckily, Sumo presents the toy to Connor next after his victory lap, and Hank takes the chance to lean back against the couch and try not to pant too obviously. Fuck, he's out of shape. Maybe he should start picking up some of those walks instead of just letting Connor do it. Maybe they could walk together. Go to that one dog park, sit beneath the big oak tree, just the two of them.

"Hank, your heart rate is elevated."

Hank is saved from replying by Sumo howling at the two fucking seconds of inattention and scrambling into Connor's lap. Connor instinctively wraps his arms around the dog, scooping him up and holding him against his chest. Sumo blinks, looks down at the floor, and then makes an almost cartoonish _hrrmm_?

"Does he not like to be picked up?" Connor asks.

Hank snorts. "He's two hundred pounds, Connor. He hasn't been picked up for ... uh, a while now."

Connor stands up, Sumo still held in his arms, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Sumo shoots Hank a very confused look, like he's not entirely sure Connor is allowed to do this. Hank grins at what cute, idiot dorks the two make.

"Yeah, that's right. If you don't behave, Connor will pick you up and put you on the roof."

"I will not!"

Sumo looks back at Connor and licks his face, then scrabbles around in his arms, forcing Connor to shuffle him until he can drape both paws over the android's shoulders and rest his head there too. Connor keeps one arm wrapped underneath his bottom, Sumo's tail enthusiastically whipping back and forth.

"Told you he's a big, spoiled baby," Hank says.

"You're not spoiled, Sumo," Connor murmurs conspiratorially to him. "You're just well-loved."

Sumo rewards him with big sloppy licks across his neck, up over his face, and into his hair. When he's done with that, he tries to twist around to look at Hank again, then starts barking when he can't.

"Oh, do you want to see Hank?"

"No way." Hank gets up and tries to edge his way around them. "I do not need dog drool in my ears."

Sumo barks loudly, drunk on power at making Connor carry him. Connor obligingly begins backing toward Hank, the traitor.

"Hey!" Hank points a stern finger at them both. "I am still the head of this household."

Sumo stretches out his neck and licks the very stern finger.

"Don't make me assert my authority."

Connor takes one last step, and Hank has to resort to desperate measures before getting a faceful of dog tongue. He quickly gets his hand underneath Sumo's collar to scratch at that Special Spot and Sumo melts into Connor's arms, all thought of unwanted french kissing forgotten.

"How are you asserting your authority, Hank?" Connor asks.

"By showing him who's boss."

"Are you going to start petting me when I get mouthy?"

"Connor, I swear to god."

Connor swings around, Sumo still held on his hip, to give him a shit-eating grin. "Assert your authority, Hank."

He does so with another firm finger jab. "Eht!"

Sumo twists around and whines, tail drooping down.

"Not you." Hank gives him another round of apology pets. "You're a good boy, Sumo. Connor could be a good boy too, but he'd rather be a smart ass."

Connor rolls his eyes, but blessedly keeps his sinful mouth shut. Hank gives another long stretch when he's finished petting Sumo, who decides he wants to be put back down now. Since Connor is happy to play with him on the floor without worrying about fucking up _his_ knees, Hank takes the opportunity to wander into the kitchen and grab a beer. He pops the top off, brings it to his lips, and then nearly spews it all over himself when he turns around and sees Connor on all fours, pert little ass wiggling in the air.

Not sexual. It's not sexual, he's just--

Hank risks another glance back at the living room just as Connor drops down onto his elbows, the sweet arch of his back, and spread thighs, and--who the hell even designed that ass anyway? Who decided it was absolutely goddamn necessary for the sake of police work to have a tight, firm--

This is why he has the sweats. Hank takes a big gulp of his beer and forces himself to turn away. He just need to mind his own goddamn business and calm down. He's way too goddamn old to be popping one off every time Connor bends over in front of him anyway.

Loading the dishwasher helps a bit, and he even goes so far as to actually wash the dirty pans he put in the sink to soak. That's enough to kill any boner, but Connor is a smug little overachiever, so he takes a wary peek back into the living room when he's done. No ass wiggling, thank god, but he feels a swelling of a different sort when he sees Sumo eagerly jump into Connor's arms to be gently spun around and then set back down, complete with a whoosh sound effect. Except Connor just literally says the word   
"whoosh" like a fucking dork.

Hank grabs a bacon treat and approaches the living room. "All right, how about we settle down and watch a movie?"

Sumo knows that movie time for Hank means treat-and-naptime for him, and he abandons Connor to trot over to his doggy bed and lay down with a long stretch. Looks like Hank isn't the only one getting worn out by the android. He drops the treat onto the bed for Sumo and settles down onto the couch, only to have Connor toss a pillow onto his lap and lay down sideways on the couch. His back is the only part really touching him, and even that is cushioned by the pillow, so it's not like the guy is sitting in his lap or anything.

But hell, tell that to his old man sweats. Or his dick. Jesus, he just got that thing under control.

"This isn't how you sit on a couch, Connor," Hank says gruffly.

Connor blinks wide eyes at him. "I'm tired from playing with Sumo, and I wanted to lay down. Is that a problem, Hank?"

"You're a menace."

Connor takes that as the compliance it is and grins widely before turning his head to interface with the TV. Now what the hell is Hank supposed to do with his hands? His right arm he can just set on the armrest to add a little support beneath Connor's hand, but his left hand hovers in the air like he's trying to decide where to stick it in a pit of vipers. He eventually settles on the somewhat neutral territory of Connor's stomach, not too far down near his waist or high up enough to touch a nipple.

"What kind of movie do you want to watch?" Connor asks quietly as his LED spins.

"Whatever you want."

"Can we watch Mad Max again?"

Hank shrugs. "Sure. Tom Hardy's pretty hot in that."

Connor just hums. "I like the colors."

The first time he'd asked to watch the movie, he had very seriously told Hank that he researched the content warnings and there were multiple car crashes--which is as far as he got before Hank burst out laughing. He feels a little bit bad about it, but only a little. His partner is a sweet guy, trying to give him trigger warnings in advance, and yeah maybe there are heavy allusions to the death of Max's child, but "there are car crashes" in the Mad Max series was just too fucking funny. After he'd finally quit laughing, he assured Connor he'd be fine with it, and now it's one of their favorites.

Hank's favorite because he's a disaster bisexual and everyone in it is hot, and Connor's favorite based on android standards that Hank doesn't quite yet understand. He does get that Connor's instant processing makes it almost impossible to stop himself from downloading the plot. Or hell, maybe he just sees the whole thing all at once, in a single second.

Anyway, a good color scheme seems to make Connor the happiest when watching movies, and even Hank can appreciate that this one has some pretty bitching palettes. Nevermind that this is the fifth time they've watched it together. He rubs Connor's stomach absently and gets a hum in response. Literally, the android hums like a happy little computer, and Hank chuckles softly.

Whatever makes Connor happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, if all your teeth haven't rotted and fallen out of your head yet, the NEXT chapter will have Connor casually tell Hank he's getting a penis, and Hank takes the news as well as he ever copes with anything ...
> 
> (badly)
> 
> Connor: Hank, I'm getting a penis and I would like--
> 
> Hank, already climbing out the nearest window a la Scrubs


	14. Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor tells Hank his fancy new update will also include a fancy new penis, and Hank does what any reasonable, well-adjusted millennial would do: haul ass and literally run away from his feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the transition from the last chapter to this one might be a little stilted, since I wrote them separately and as taking place in different parts of the timeline, then decided they fit better right next to each other. so this technically starts off right after the last chapter ends, with Hank and Connor snuggling on the couch watching a movie together
> 
> no trigger warnings or anything, but since the subject matter is all about Connor getting a penis, it's a bit more nsfw than the last chapter of wholesome dog ownership goodness

It's Saturday evening movie night, Hank has been allowed one (1) beer, and Connor is laying length-wise along the couch so that he's partially in Hank's lap. If he turns his head to the side, he can nuzzle into his human's stomach to better hear his heartbeat and digestion noises. It's easy to sync up his own thirium pump to the steady beat and his breathing sub-routine to Hank's breaths. If he stays like this, he can focus all of his analysis on Hank, until even that fades away, and he simply feels the human next to him.

Hank had protested this position at first, but he never did make Connor sit properly. Once his BPM hits a steady 76 again, Connor sets a twenty minute countdown in his mind. They are both safe, relaxed, and comfortable. This is logically the most optimal time to start a new discussion.

At 0:02 on his timer, Connor opens his mouth and says, "I'm getting a penis."

\--

One of these days, Hank is going to die. He's just gonna fucking keel over, and he'll do it entirely out of spite.

"Now?" he asks, even though it's probably a stupid question.

If androids can peel their skin back and put it on again in different face shapes and shit, then maybe Connor can ... like ... he shoots a worried glance down at the android's crotch as if a penis is going to sprout inside his black slacks right this instant.

"Tomorrow," Connor answers. "With my other update. Your heart rate has increased to one-oh-four beats per minute. Is now a bad time to have this conversation?"

"I--Jesus." Hank scrubs his free hand over his face. "Practically fucking crawl into my lap and tell me you're getting a dick."

"I could get a vagina."

Hank keeps his hand over his face out of protective instinct. He's. Going. To. Die!!

"Would you prefer that, Hank?"

"Don't--" he finally splutters. "Just--fuck, Connor. Get whatever you want. Why the hell would--I don't even--"

Connor, being sent by Cyberlife specifically to murder Hank, deftly swings himself into Hank's lap to make direct eye contact. "I would like your opinion."

Hank grits his teeth and drops his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "It's your body. My opinion shouldn't mean shit."

"The parts are interchangeable."

_Dear God, I know it's been a while and I'm a shit fucking person, but why are you doing this to me?_

"A second set would be more costly, but I'm willing to make the investment if you would be interested in--"

Hank's head snaps back down. "In what, Connor?"

"In ..." Brown eyes blink at him, and then Connor bites his lip. "Sex? With me. At some point."

Hank's brain leaves the building, buys a plane ticket to Bermuda, and skips the country.

"Your stress levels are dangerously high, lieutenant. You should try to calm down."

"All right." Hank exhales slowly. "But I'm gonna need another beer. So sit on the couch like a normal person for a sec."

Connor frowns but slides back over onto the couch. Hank stands up. Walks toward the kitchen. Another step. And into the hallway. Power walking. Ignoring the way Connor calls his name. Almost to the backdoor. Shit, he's caught on. Running, almost--

Connor tackles Hank to the ground. Hank flips over and kicks him in the shoulder. Hurts his fucking foot is what that does. And then Connor grabs his ankle and yanks him back away from the door. Sumo bounds in to bark excitedly at this new game, doing absolutely jack shit to defend his owner. What a fucking traitor.

"Hank, will you--"

Hank pulls his left leg up and braces his knee into Connor's stomach to prevent the android from moving forward, then tries to kick off of his hip with his other foot to break away, but Connor's superior reflexes let him shift to the side just enough that Hank's foot skims off.

"Just stop--"

He sits up on his elbows and grabs Connor's shoulders, left leg extending back out to wrap around the android's waist, intending to use those two points of leverage to flip their position. Instead, Connor suddenly turns to dead weight on top of him. And _fuck_ , is that a lot of weight. Hank lets out an undignified oof as Connor pretty much collapses on top of him. What the fuck is this kid made out of anyway?

Hank gets both his arms under the android's shoulders and fucking heaves. Connor chooses that exact instant to shift from deadweight to moving with him, and they flip over much faster than he anticipated. Now he falls on top of Connor as useless fat fucking weight for a split second as he lets out another grunt.

Connor’s legs wrap around his hips, feet coming around the backs of his knees to trap his legs. Hank shoves the palm of his hand up under the android’s chin to force his head back, but he doesn’t put any real strength behind the move. A second later, Connor slaps his hand away anyway, somehow grabbing his other wrist too and trapping both in one hand. He pulls Hank’s arms away so he can’t support himself, Connor’s free hand yanking Hank’s head back by his hair.

“Don’t think you’re in control just because you’re on top,” the android growls.

Hank’s body makes it known that he already has a cock installed and ready to go. He spitefully refuses to acknowledge it.

“Le’ggo!"

“You started this."

“Boof! Boof-BOOF!"

Hank can’t even fucking glare at his smug, stupid, cockthirsty partner. Connor has his arms pulled away from their bodies like they’re in a tango, so he’s left laying on top of him like a beached whale, huffing into the crook of his neck.

“Let. Go."

“Do you promise not to run away like a child?"

Hank glares at Connor’s jawline. A flash of pink is all he sees before Sumo’s tongue descends between them to lick at his face, Connor’s neck, Connor’s face, into both their ears, Hank’s beard--

The two separate out of self-preservation to defend from the onslaught. Sumo ends up in Connor’s lap because he doesn’t have to worry about his legs going numb from a two hundred pound lapdog. Hank scoots back until he can lean against the wall.

“Do you need to go outside?” Connor asks Sumo. “I think you are too excited and need to go play outside."

Hank doesn’t look at either of them as Connor lets the dog escape out the backdoor into the fenced yard. Maybe literally trying to run away from a conversation wasn’t the most mature solution, but goddammit. A man can’t just have that sort of thing sprung on him!

Connor slides down the wall to sit on the opposite side of the hallway. “I’m sorry."

Hank stares down at his feet.

“I mistook your physical attraction to me as a desire to have sex as well. I should not have assumed—"

“Fuck, Connor. Just …"

Hank presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots. Of course he wants to have sex with Connor. He wants sex and dinner dates and waking up next to him forever. He just can’t make any of those words happen with his mouth. Like he’s a stupid little kid too scared to jump off the high dive at the pool. All he can do is stare at the water and know he’s fucking it up for everyone in line behind him.

“You’re here,” he mutters.

That’s about the most he can force out. He doesn’t understand why Connor is still putting up with his shit, can’t convince himself Connor will stay, couldn’t believe any promises even if Connor makes them.

But he’s here now. Looking like Hank ripped out his pump and won’t put it back. So he’s gotta find some way to say _something_.

“As long as you want. I ain’t ever gonna kick you out, all right?"

Connor nods slowly. “All right."

“And uh.” Hank still can’t look at him in anything more than tiny glimpses, but he tries, dammit. “We’re always gonna be partners."

Partners. Fuck, he can barely get that word out. He knows Connor wants more, but that thought won’t stay in his head. It burns too much to hold onto, so he tosses it aside and grabs for something he can understand.

“Yes.” Connor’s voice is hard. “We will."

“'Kay. So.” Hank takes a deep breath and forces himself to look at him. “No matter what you … get, all right? I’m still going to—"

Love you.

Love you, love you, love you.

_love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you_

“Be your partner."

“I want a penis for my own reasons,” Connor says with no small amount of exasperation. “I just want your opinion. You were happy to give me plenty of opinions when I picked out new shirts."

Hank snorts. “You can’t compare dicks to shirts, Connor. And you didn’t even listen to any of my suggestions."

Connor primly tightens his lips. “That’s because they were all horrible. And—“ he continues before Hank can protest. “If I do not agree with your opinions now, I will ignore those too. I just want to be able to talk to you about things."

Well good fucking luck with that. Hank sighs and lets his head tip back to hit the wall. He’s really got to start doing better with this shit.

“Yeah. Sorry."

“May we continue this conversation then?"

“Yeah, lemme … “ Hank stands up with a groan. “Sumo’s gonna want back in."

“I’ve got him."

Hank stretches out the kinks in his back while Connor opens the door, but he doesn’t let Sumo in right away.

“Go potty first,” he instructs the dog.

“Boof!"

“I did not hear you pee."

Sumo whines and tries to nudge his way past Connor’s legs. Hank walks over to add some authority.

“Go potty, Sumo."

Between the two of them, they stand strong against Sumo’s puppy eyes until he huffs and trots back into the yard to piss. Connor praises him as soon as he raises his leg, and it’s all so stupidly domestic, Hank has to find something to bitch about quick.

“You fucking tackled me."

“That’s right, Hank."

“Thought you wanted to be a bottom."

Connor side eyes him. “Power bottoms are a thing. I researched."

Sumo bounds back up before Hank’s brain can fully process what sort of shit Connor might have been researching, so he gives up and follows them back down the hall without even trying to think of a smart retort. The dog flops down in his bed, while the two of them end up sitting back on the couch, two feet of separation between them, staring straight ahead at the tv. The only thing Hank succeeded in doing is somehow making this conversation even more awkward and letting Sumo out for a potty break.

Might as well take the damn plunge before Connor says something _really_ weird.

"Why do you want a penis?" he asks.

"I don't ..." Connor trails off and shifts on the couch. "Getting wet seems messy?"

Hank blinks stupidly at the tv as a vision of Connor spreading his firm, athletic thighs to reveal a dripping wet pussy murders his brain. He opens his mouth, makes some sort of strangled wheeze, and promptly shuts it again.

"There are options to manually control arousal, but since the point is experiencing life more humanly, I would prefer to let that happen organically. And I don't want to be wet all of the time while we're at work."

Hank's brain astral projects back into his skull with a thump, and he manages to make words happen again. "It's not a constant thing, Connor. Not enough to be noticeable anyway."

"But you will be there, and you make me--"

"Listen, kid," Hank snaps, words suddenly bursting out of him. "I'm not making anyone wet anymore, so cut it the fuck out with the ego-stroking."

Connor tilts his head slowly to the side, and Hank can't make eye contact anymore. Shit, he hadn't meant to yell like that, and even worse--now it's painfully obvious how fucking insecure he's gotten. Maybe he could have aged gracefully if he hadn't been so hot in his youth. It's been a hard fall from grace going from having a dick as big as his ego and people of all ages and genders swooning over him in his dress uniform to whiskey dick and a beer gut.

"Yesterday alone you aroused three coworkers," Connor says in the silence. "Not including myself."

Hank makes stupid noises in the back of his throat, caught somewhere between splutters and growling.

"I was designed to observe and manipulate humans, so please don't argue with me, Hank," he continues. "It is very difficult to ignore that sort of thing when I automatically analyze body language, dilated pupils, and excessive heart rates and levels of sweat."

Hank keeps his jaw locked shut. He's sure that arguing back really won't end in his own best interests--mostly because Connor has already tackled him once today--but there's a damn important difference between causing an effect and just being in the general vicinity. And it doesn't take a genius investigative android to recognize that yeah, there are going to be some aroused people nearby when he walks around next to the world's hottest twink.

Instead he inhales slowly through his nose and exhales through his mouth. He needs to quit it with the fucking pity party and be supportive of his boyfr--

partner.

"Any other reasons you want a dick?" Hank grits out just to change the subject.

"Well, simply put, a vagina would require more tubing," Connor says.

Hank finally shifts his position on the couch to look at the other man with a raised eyebrow.

"Since I would like the option of," Connor pauses with a faint blue tinge over his cheeks. "Eating and passing food as a human does--in case undercover work ever requires me to pass as human--"

"For a case, right."

Connor does not appreciate Hank's amused smirk, but he continues nonetheless. "Hypothetically, my anal cavity would be connected to an expanded storage component, which in and of itself will require some internal arrangement. Frankly, there would not be much room for an additional set of tubes that would already be redundant, since you could just fuck my--"

"All right!" Hank swallows hard and huffs. "Limited space, redundant, got it."

"Hank."

"What?"

Connor sighs. "I said I wanted to be able to _talk_ to you about this. Is the conversation really making you that uncomfortable?"

"No," Hank admits. "Just ... you keep talking like this is something you're getting just to have sex with me. And you can--there are a lot of people out there, OK? You don't have to settle for the first human to be nice to you. I wasn't even that fucking nice. Hell, I'm still not."

"Let me read you a list of all the people I want to have sex with."

"Oh, Christ."

"Hank Anderson."

The living room stays silent for a long moment.

"If I read that too fast for your human brain to--"

Hank buries his face in his hands to hide his blush. "Fuck off."

"What size penis do you prefer in your partners?"

Hank lets out a low groan like a wounded animal.

"It is not like I'm going to jump you," Connor says a bit indignantly. "And remaining your partner is a much higher priority than having sex. I'm happy just with this."

"You haven't. Experienced. Anything else." Hank bites out the words one at a time to force them out and maybe, just maybe, get through to the dumbest smart person he knows.

"Hank, I swear to god, I will make you vegan."

"You'll fucking _what_?!"

He knows that was the wrong thing to say when Connor's LED flashes red like a warning. Evacuate the area. No survivors. But it's too late. Connor draws himself up on the couch so that he's kneeling, but up on his knees to make sure he's taller than Hank and can point down at him. Shit. Nothing good ever happens when the accusatory finger-point gets whips out.

"You've never tried it." Connor throws his arms out. "Think of all the vegetables that you've never had!"

"I--"

"Tofu! Have you eaten it, Hank?"

"That's not--"

"I suppose when you first had french fries, you just put them back for twenty years." Connor drops his voice in a poor imitation of Hank. "Well, there might be something better, so I can't have these anymore. I'm off to eat broccoli."

Despite himself and his depression, Hank has to scowl extra hard to keep a grin from breaking free. He knows the android can perfectly mimic anyone's voice, so the bad impression is the dork's deliberate choice.

Connor, on the other hand, is not amused.

"And if you're really so concerned about me experiencing other people, I'll have plenty of time for that when you're dead!"

"Jesus, Connor."

That fucking got dark fast. Maybe he's been a bad influence. Connor's LED stays cycling red for several seconds before puttering back to yellow as he stares down at his hands.

"I would like to make the most of the time I have with you," Connor says quietly. "So if you want this too, why can't we have it?"

Hank stares at him and tries to find a reply. That nasty little voice in his head is downright gleeful to get the opportunity to list all the reasons why he's a shitty person who deserves to die alone, but then Connor looks up at him with pleading eyes, and his whole mind just goes blank. Denying himself happiness is one thing, but damn if he can deny Connor anything.

He takes a deep breath. "I want you to get whatever kind of attachment you want, 'cause I promise you, I'm gonna be rock hard about it no matter what."

Connor's eyes brighten, and he offers him a tiny smile. Hank looks away and clears his throat.

"That might uh, be metaphorically speaking. Sometimes. I'm--been drunk more often than sober the last three years. And, uh. Age, y'know."

Connor crawls over into his lap again, and Hank is a weak, weak man. He mutters a quick _fuck it_ and lays them both down so they're stretched out along the couch with Connor laying half on top of him and his arm around the android's waist. He feels a soft kiss pressed to his cheek and has to squeeze his eyes shut tight.

"May I tell you my list of foods I want to try?" Connor murmurs into his ear.

Hank swallows past the lump in his throat. "Broccoli."

"I've heard that when salted and roasted with a little lemon juice, it can be quite good."

"Goddamn vegan propaganda."

Connor laughs, and Hank turns his head to the side to feel the android's hair against his cheek. He's here. They're both here. Maybe Connor will change his mind later, maybe Hank will fuck it all up, but there's right here, right now.

"Tell me whatever you want, Con."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank, experiencing one (1) feeling: oh fuck it's too much I'm dying. is this what death feels like? mother? mother is that you??
> 
> Connor, a deviant who had to develop and experience all feelings within literally one fucking week and then adjust to them without a childhood or any formative experiences, but is still open and honest and working hard on himself: for fuck's sake, Hank ....................................... I'm so sorry I know this is really hard for you and society has taught you to repress your feelings as a man and statistically speaking, divorce results in higher rates of suicide and depression in men because none of you ever learned to form real friendships with
> 
> Hank, sitting back up: you know what, actually I'm fine


	15. Goldilocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank takes Connor to Cyberlife to get the last of his super special updates, even though he hates hospitals and does Not do well in waiting rooms. Will his boyfriend make it through the surgery? What if the operation is unsuccessful? What if the technician bumps something by accident and Connor downloads incurable cancer??
> 
> These are clearly all valid and reasonable concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor gets "operated on" in this chapter, which requires his chassis opening up and having his parts exposed, exchanged, etc. I didn't get into a lot of detail, so I don't think it needs a body horror tag, but just a heads up. He also switches out a couple penises to see which one he likes the most, which I have no idea how to tag for, but it seems very adjacent to dysphoria, body modification, etc in my opinion

"Mr. Anderson?"

Hank and Connor both stand up. At least Connor has a reason, since this is his surgery and he needed some sort of last name to put on his paperwork. Hank just can't stop himself from hovering as closely to his partner as possible, one hand settling possessively on his hip. The woman who walks up to them has no need for a clipboard, and her LED circles in time with Connor's for a moment before she turns to address Hank verbally.

"It is our policy for humans to remain in the waiting room until the operation is complete," she says with a smile.

His palms have been sweating since the drive over. It's bad enough that he can't stop imagining what everyone here must think of him--a dirty old man coercing his subordinate android into getting genitals--but the last time he'd been forced to _remain in the waiting room_ , he'd lost the most important person in the world to him. And now here his dumbass is again, in another waiting room, loving a whole new person, like he's fucking allowed to do that after all the shit--

Hank forces himself to take a deep breath and nod politely. This isn't about him. He might deserve to die alone, but Connor doesn't deserve anything but a long, happy life. Not even he can believe the universe would be cruel enough to--to--

Connor's hands gently cup his face, forcing him to look down at those big brown eyes.

"I will be fine," he promises. "Please do not cause yourself unnecessary stress waiting for me."

Hank swallows and gives another shaky nod. "Tell me again how long's this supposed to be?"

He already knows the answer. Connor has told him four separate times now. Hank draws him even closer and attempts to resist the urge to throw him over his shoulder in a fireman's hold and bust them out of here.

"An estimated time of one hour and sixteen minutes," Connor says, thumbs brushing through Hank's beard. "Depending on how long it takes the new biocomponents to sync with my system."

Hank clears his throat past the lump in it. "All right. I'm gonna be right out here, 'kay?"

Connor gives him a fond smile. "I know."

They stay standing like that for another moment, his arms at Connor's hips and the android's hands on his face. Connor's eyes dip down to his lips, but his LED swirls yellow. Hank has been a big fat coward avoiding The Talk about what their relationship actually is, and kissing his partner now would give off even worse mixed signals. But he can't just let him go either.

Hank raises his other hand to tilt Connor's head forward and places a chaste kiss on his forehead. Connor sighs happily beneath him and sinks easily into his chest. They continue their prolonged hug until the light of the technician's LED swirls yellow out of Hank's peripheral vision, Connor's own light mimicking it for a split second. Then he pulls away.

"Please train my Bulbasaur," he tells Hank with all the formality of assigning him a new case.

"Fine, fine. I'll grind out levels for you," Hank pretend-grumbles, forcing himself to let go and take a step back. "But don't think I'm ever going to be your healer in an MMO."

"Nines plays those as a sniper," Connor cheerfully informs him. "He has received five hundred and sixty-seven death threats. Coincidentally, Detective Reed acts as his voice over the headset."

Hank sits back down in his chair with a snort. "Yeah, and that's the only thing I want to hear about Reed's or your brother's internet habits."

Connor lets out his own little laugh and imitates a little finger-wave he saw Chen do once. Hank feels his heart swell in exact proportion to his rising panic as Connor disappears into the lab with the android woman. The waiting room is too fucking sterile, all minimalist white walls and uncomfortable plastic seats that are barely even shaped like chairs anymore to match the aesthetic. Hank shifts in his with a real grumble. There obviously wasn't any human input in the design of this room. He takes out his gameboy, now more of a shared device between the two of them, and flips the screen up.

Just another hour and fifteen minutes to go.

\--

_How do you have a brother?_

Connor begins stripping off his clothes without being told. Inside the lab, there's no need for human concepts like modesty or verbal communication. The plain white table does send a slight jolt of what he's now able to recognize as anxiety throughout his system, but the all-android technicians running the lab have freely shared a full breakdown of the upcoming procedure.

 _He is the next model in the RK series_. Connor lays down on the table and closes his eyes. _I both activated and woke him up after Cyberlife Tower was reclaimed, and now we work at the same department. I see him as my brother. I think he might be close to considering me a work acquaintance._

 _Initiating procedure_. Metal arms descend from the ceiling, pincers quickly unsealing his chest cavity. _Has interfacing not solved that disparity?_

Connor watches the technician tilt her head to the side to indicate her curiosity so he doesn't have to see the claws descending inside his body. A repair has never been frightening before, but this is his first experience as a deviant. He focuses as much processing power as he can divert onto the technician and realizes that she did not understand that juxtaposition was supposed to be humorous. Hank would be proud of him for making a joke. Is this what he looked like in their early days when he lacked the experience to understand the nuances of much of what the human said?

_He does not wish to interface._

Several error warnings pop up in his vision, but they are all expected and dismissed. Yes, his storage unit has been removed. His four cooling units as well. Connor breathes in and out slowly. The cooling units will be replaced with two smaller, more advanced versions that will take up less room so that his storage unit may also be upgraded to a larger bio-component more efficient at absorbing nutrients into his system.

_**Brother** is a very human term. Is your human supportive of your new connections? the technician asks._

Despite his discomfort, Connor manages to smile when he thinks about "his human." _Yes. Hank is supportive of nearly everything I do. He just worries sometimes and gets overprotective._

_Was he your owner?_

The messages comes across without judgment, but he can still feel a flicker of concern. He has allowed his skin to recede completely at this point, and the technician works in her natural state as well. They're not quite interfacing, but they're close enough for a bit more than just word-based messages to exchange between them.

She initiates another message. _Some androids were protected by their owners before the Revolution and chose to stay. But many others--it is difficult to go from **property** to **equal** in the eyes of humans._

 _Hank and I were partners,_ Connor trasmits firmly. _I was not truly required to follow his orders, and I often did not. He would complain and sometimes yell, but he never harmed me for being disobedient._

The arms begin connecting new tubing inside of him, each connection registering with a sickly jolt. Connor grits his teeth and holds Hank's image in his mind. It's true that Connor has entirely self-contained reasons for wanting this update. He quite looks forward to being able to eat, for instance. And having genitals--whether he and Hank engage in sex or not--certainly sounds fun.

But he's also very eager for their lunch date after this. To sit down at a restaurant with Hank and share a meal with him instead of staring and fiddling with sugar packets.

And a very large part of him hopes Hank will want to have sex. Or at least look at him. Not at an unrealistically smooth mound between his legs, but at the body Connor has started to picture himself having. Will Hank like it? He's already let slip a few times that Connor is-- _gorgeous, too fuckin' beautiful, pretty goddamn little twink._

The equivalent of Connor's stomach currently rests on a small counter next to the operating table, but he still feels something very akin to the sensation humans describe as having butterflies inside it.

 _My priority was to complete my mission,_ Connor continues as a distraction. _Hank's priority was to help people. He often issued orders that went against my programming. And yelled at me to be more careful. I had not considered keeping me safe could be another one of his priorities._

_You are very lucky to have such a human._

The claws retract out of his body, and Connor smiles brightly. Yes, I am.

_Are these cosmetic features still your preference?_

Connor reviews the schematic and nods, then accepts the prompt to begin downloading a new skin patch. It will make the skin around his newly installed tubing appear more like a natural anus and should sync up to any genital attachments installed.

_Please take all the time you need to begin installing your new software packages. We added a chair._

The technician gestures proudly to a chair identical to the ones in the waiting room, sitting up against the wall next to the door they came through. It really does look like they simply carried in a chair and set it down. Connor wonders whether the technicians here have installed any humanizing upgrades themselves, or if they receive regular human contact outside of human partners accompanying androids. No one seems to realize how uncomfortable these chairs are.

He simulates Hank's voice inside his head and changes that thought to _fucking uncomfortable_ as he takes a seat.

***

An hour and five software packages later, Connor stands in an area akin to a dressing room and detaches the standard blank pubic mound that is the factory default for all androids not designed as sex workers or companion models. He sets it aside on the small table and cautiously picks up the recommended model. It is six and a half inches long, and therefore larger than the American average without yet bordering on overcompensation. Barely.

For some reason though, he hesitates to connect it to his newly-exposed port.

Connor's options are limited as a former police unit. The previous Cyberlife did seem to recognize seduction as a valid manipulation tactic because the port he currently has installed is compatible with some of the lower tier options for the companion models. Additionally, the revamped Cyberlife has been churning out new accessories for as many android models as possible, but even so, he only has eight options to choose from.

Unless he pays for an upgraded port as well. He wouldn't necessarily have to spring for the universal port of an HR400 model that would be compatible with all current options. Even upgraded just to a higher tier companion model's port would allow significantly higher choices.

Connor shakes his head. This model has been chosen by 65% of androids with his port and by 78% of the other RK800 models. He is simply overthinking again.

The attachment connects smoothly, a dialogue prompt appearing in his vision to suggest downloading a "test packet." He accepts the download and takes another look at himself in the mirror while the small test packet unpacks a basic erection sub-routine and syncs to his current sensitivity settings. He has them turned down to 20% to accommodate the fresh update that has put him on the same level as an average human, versus his significantly lower factory settings.

It ...

Connor frowns. It's new. Sometimes new experiences are uncomfortable for him solely because he doesn't have any context for them or directives on what to do. He takes a deep breath, turns slightly to the side, and tries to look at the penis resting against his thigh objectively.

...

It looks ugly.

He exhales forcefully and puts his hands on his hips. While it's true that he's never thought of any human genitalia as being particularly attractive or unattractive--barring Hank's, of course--he has been very excited for this upgrade. Browsing through the selection catalog and viewing both the unattached accessories and the androids modeling them hadn't been unpleasant. So why is seeing one on him so upsetting?

He tries twisting to the other side. Turns around. Faces the mirror again but only gives himself a quick glance--yet still immediately registers the penis as an anomaly.

After another long moment of frowning at himself, he decides that it's too long. It looks floppy. Too thick. He also doesn't like the "circumcised" head that is just ... out there. He swears the thing is trying to make eye contact with him in the mirror. This is the typical style for Americans, and the whole point of these upgrades is to feel like he fits in.

But it's just so ugly.

Connor sighs and contacts the VB800 sales representative named Vincent with a swirl of his LED. He had tried to prepare himself to the possibility of making a compromise, but this model hadn't looked so bad in the catalog and he'd been hoping to make a quick, easy decision.

 _May I see the range of smaller options within my compatibility?_ he asks when Vincent arrives.

 _Of course._ Vincent takes back the disconnected test model with an accommodating smile. _But I should inform you that due to these models' lower sales rate, we have less data collected from them._

Connor nods. _That's fine._

He turns back to the mirror when Vincent leaves and sighs again. He really is trying to choose what he wants. Perhaps it's just coincidence that the softcore pornographic images Hank shared with him tended to feature men with smaller genitals and Connor also wanting a smaller one.

His cheeks blush at him in response to that thought. Maybe not a coincidence. But that penis really had looked wrong on him.

Vincent comes back with three new options, one of which Connor is able to dismiss immediately as still being too long and possessing a curve he instinctively dislikes the look of. The remaining two are more difficult to choose between. The middle one shows a holographic display of its full extension at five inches, a plain and simple average. No curve, with a set of equally unassuming testicles. He can't help but to think it's boring, even though it's the perfect average he thought he wanted.

But the last option ...

Connor bites his lip again as he considers it. The display shows even a complete erection will only just reach four inches. Designed as an "uncircumcised" version, the short length and foreskin gathering at the tip makes it look a little bit chubby. An embarrassingly significant part of his processing power gets diverted to simulating how it would look next to Hank's own penis. The human's hand would nearly cover it completely.

He suddenly understands why Hank is always taking the Lord's name in vain because ...

_God._

Vincent cocks his head to the side and Connor realizes with a heaping dose of embarrassment that he had projected that thought. Possibly a few others as well.

 _I think it would look very nice on you._ He holds out the smallest model and smirks a little, without malice. _And with your human._

Connor forgets himself and verbally mumbles a "thank you" as he takes the test model. Vincent leaves to give him some privacy, in recognition that some androids have picked up that human concept as well. He installs this one quickly, then finds himself staring at the blank wall instead of looking in the mirror.

What if he doesn't like this one either?

What if he doesn't like any of the accessories and he has to go back and tell Hank that he's not getting a penis after all and he wasted everyone's time and maybe he was really only doing it for the attention anyway and--

Connor looks.

All of the unnecessary air he'd inhaled leaves his system in a rush. He looks ...

_Gorgeous, beautiful, pretty goddamn little twink._

Connor smiles at his reflection so hard an error pops up in the corner of his vision. He waves it off and twists from side to side, this time admiring how his chubby little cock swings ever-so-slightly with the movement. He doesn't have the option to manually adjust the skin color or turn on automatic responses with this test model, so he simply runs the erection sub-routine and watches as it fills out in a rather mechanical manner.

The full length barely clears where his pubic hair would end, once he has that installed too. If he can bring himself to be objective, it's really not that much smaller than the average. One inch, give or take, is still within the standard bell curve. It only looks smaller in comparison to the rest of his bodily proportions--which, although he was built to exemplify lean muscle, Connor recognizes that he is still taller and stronger than the typical human, so in _comparison_ \--

Vincent bursts in without preamble, messaging him almost forcefully. _Your human is causing a disturbance in the waiting room._

Connor only bothers to hastily tug on his pants because the message is accompanied by a short audio clip of Hank yelling--demanding to see him--which means the lieutenant is still alive and in good enough condition to shout. He runs through the corridors without Vincent's assistance, the route he'd taken through the building automatically logged and routed. It still takes him two minutes and thirty-four seconds to reach the waiting room, simulated preconstructions of danger screaming in his head.

"--can't fucking keep me out here! Connor! Connor!!"

Hearing Hank scream his name shuts down all functions not immediately related to his movement and combat capabilities. Three other androids, an ST300 receptionist unsuccessfully trying to talk him down while two GJ500 security officers start positioning themselves in a flanking maneuver. Hank's stress levels are at 89% and his BPM is nearing the 130s. Connor slips between the two GJ500s before they can finish closing in and grabs the lieutenant's arm, instinctively spinning them around to put his own body between the other androids and his human.

"Connor, hey!" Hank's hands reach out for him, but they barely brush his sides, trying to urge him to turn around with only the lightest of touches. "Hey, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Connor turns around to face him, processors spinning wildly when Hank cups his face and looks over _his_ body for injuries. He doesn't understand this line of questioning. Hank is the one in danger. Yet his BPM is starting to marginally decline, slowing down the longer they touch.

"I am fine, lieutenant." He knows Hank prefers his name, but he's still running threat assessments and calculating the other androids' locations behind him and scanning Hank's vitals for any sign of injury. "Why are you yelling?"

"You--" Hank splutters, shaking his head and scowling furiously. "It's been two and a half hours! You said the operation would take one!"

Connor stares up at him. Hank isn't the most patient man, but nothing in his social processor can detect why he would cause a scene like this over an unexpected wait.

"And why the hell are you standing up, running around," he demands next.

"You? Were yelling??"

Hank's scowl impossibly deepends. "They said I couldn't see you and no one would _fucking tell me_ if the surgery was successful!"

The ST300 speaks up to inform Hank that the "operation" is still incomplete, but even with a multimillion dollar processor, Connor can't focus on it. Now that it's finally hit him why Hank is reacting like this, he feels like he wants to melt into the floor.

\--

"Hank."

The soft whisper of his name has Hank reluctantly swallowing down the profanities he was going to shout at the receptionist in favor of looking down at Connor again. He has his hands on the kid's shoulders, gripping as hard as he dares to keep them from trembling. Connor places one of his own hands on his chest and the other at his neck.

"Hank, I am not injured in any way," Connor says. "Please sit down."

He lets out a shuddering exhale at the reassurance, even if he's nowhere near actually believing it, and lets his partner guide him down into one of the horrible minimalist chairs. And then sit in his damn lap.

"I'm here, Hank." Connor cups his face again, the android's own face clearly wracked with guilt. "I did not realize you were thinking of my 'operation' in human terms. Please forgive me. There was never any risk to my person."

Well. Fuck. Hank swallows hard and glances around the room behind Connor, but then has to drop his gaze back down to avoid eye contact with the other androids who probably think he's crazy. Or a fucking idiot. Probably both. Of course this wasn't--it's not like--with Cole.

"The fuck's taking so long then," he manages to grumble past a tight throat.

Connor's whole face tinges blue and now he's the one avoiding eye contact. "There are ... many options to choose from. I was having trouble making a decision."

There's only one type of stomach. And by god, there had damn well better be only one type of asshole. So by process of elimination, Hank Anderson, the DPD's best and brightest, deduces that Connor just spent an extra hour trying to choose a penis.

The guffaw bursts out of him, and then once he's started, he can't stop laughing.

"Is--is there ... a dressing room?" he gasps.

Connor blinks at him three times in a row. "Yes."

Hank laughs harder. He's definitely cementing everyone else's opinion of him as a crazy person, but he's just so goddamn relieved. His dumb, adorable partner was only wasting time trying on dicks. Like Goldilocks. And then that thought sends him into another round of helpless giggles--Connor making that pissy little face he does when something isn't Just Right and glaring accusingly at a cock between his legs that's curving .3 centimeters too much to the left.

"Hank."

Connor's exasperated voice almost brings him out of it. He coughs and tries to swallow down the rest of his entirely inappropriate giggle fit so he can look serious. Unfortunately, Connor looks way too fucking cute, big eyes round with concern but brow furrowed as he tries to work out what the hell is going on with his idiot human.

And he's OK. He's OK, he's OK, he's OK.

Hank kisses him before he even realizes he was going to do it. Then his brain catches up to him, two seconds too late, as usual, and his stomach tries to crawl out his asshole at the sight of Connor sitting there with his eyes wide open and LED frantically flashing yellow. No shit, he's processing. That was almost definitely his first kiss--his first one ever--that Hank just stole from him and ruined and--

Connor kisses him back.

Although maybe "kiss" is a bit generous. The over-eager android pretty much just headbutts his mouth to Hank's mouth and keeps it pressed there as hard as he can. Hank keeps his eyes open partly out of shock and partly because this isn't registering as a real kiss, but Connor's are tightly squeezed shut. Hank goes a little cross-eyed trying to look at him, bright flashes of yellow pulsing out of his peripheral vision. Finally, he has to lift his hand to Connor's shoulder in order to gently ease him back so he can breathe.

"I'm sorry," they both say at the same time.

Hank chuckles again. "You fuckin' should be. Scared the shit outta me, Con."

"I'm sorry, Hank," Connor repeats, made a bit less sincere by how he can't stop smiling. "If it helps, I believe I've made my decision."

And Jesus, doesn't that thought just take him out back and shoot him. A decision. Hank blinks and clears his throat. Can he ask to--well, obviously, Connor isn't going to drop his pants in the waiting room and show him. Wait, fuck. These are androids. Crazy little fucker might do _exactly_ that, especially since he's not even wearing a shirt right now. Actually, is he ...

Hank looks down to assess the pants situation, but Connor swings out of his lap before he can get a good look. They might have been unbuttoned though. Shit, did he just yank on some pants and run down here? This morning literally could not get any more embarrassing.

"I'm only wearing a test model right now though," Connor says, apparently in reference to a penis, that he has on and equipped, right now, specifically to embarrass Hank even more. "So I need to go change and make my purchase. But I will be right back. Eight minutes and thirteen seconds, I promise."

Hank tries to make an affirmative grunt, but he's pretty sure it comes out as a strangled wheeze. Thankfully, the two security officer androids leave the room once it's clear that he won't be causing any more scenes, and the receptionist follows after Connor.

Yep, he's just going to sit here for the next eight whole minutes, totally not thinking about Connor's cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST KISS FIRST KISS FIRST KISS!!!! and it only took 15 chapters lmao
> 
> sorry about the later than usual update! I've had a super busy week, and I'm still trying to get that Reed900 fic completed before I start posting it since I'm doing something new with RK900's voice. I'm still writing for this pretty steadily though, and I'm sure you'll all be ecstatic to know that the reason I'm writing less than usual is because I can't write sex scenes at work in a public library, so now I can only write new chapters in my free time at home
> 
> so less quantity, but much higher smut quality 8)


	16. Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank realizes he wants to live again and handles it really well by immediately having a panic attack and scaring the shit out of Connor. then they kiss and make ~~up~~ out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we don't quite need a rating change for this chapter, but WE'RE GETTING THERE!! basically, Hank tries to teach Connor how to kiss, and Connor takes to it like a tornado made of puppies, which is to say he's a very licky boi
> 
>  **trigger warnings:** as always, suicidal thoughts on Hank's part, but he also recognizes these as bad and seriously considers getting help for the first time

Hank watches Connor get jumped by Sumo for making the mistake of being the first one through the door and skirts around them to put the leftovers in the fridge. Even though they had a late lunch, it isn't even five'o'clock yet, but damn if he isn't ready to sink into the couch. It's been a hell of a day already, and he's only reminded of that when he sees Connor offer Sumo a toy in placation so he can slip off into the bedroom.

Their bedroom. With that little white box.

He didn't have any wine at that fancy Italian place, so that means he gets beer now, right? Fuck, his throat feels dry. The box doesn't have any writing or logos on it, sleek and discrete.

And so little. Did that mean ...?

Hank practically yanks a beer out of the fridge and pops the cap off. It's none of his goddamn business. He told Connor to get whatever attachment he wanted, and it's none of his goddamn business if the cock he chose is ...

Little.

Hank leans back against the counter and rolls the cold bottle against his forehead. Why is he such a gross old man? This is about Connor, and his feelings, and being human--hell, maybe even a gender affirmation. _Not_ about his own sexual kinks. So he's not going to think about the box, or how small it is, or Connor being in their bedroom with it.

He's just going to ... wipe down the countertops. Yeah. Like an adult. He used to be one of those, once upon a time. Hell, he'd even liked to bake and prided himself on his kitchen. Which is Juli's kitchen now, and the one here has a stove at least fifteen years old, but. He used to be good at this shit, and since Connor can eat now, maybe he can haul his ass into shape and get good at it again.

He hasn't made a tart in a long time. Connor had liked ... OK, he has to close his eyes against the memory of how much Connor had liked the raspberry cheesecake. Even when he wasn't licking alfredo sauce off his fingers, he kept making these happy humming noises whenever he tried something he particularly enjoyed. He hadn't stopped smiling through the whole meal, and neither had Hank. He hasn't been this happy in three years and really, he should just go ahead and kill himself now while he's ahead.

Except something happens, inside of him. In his chest. It's been a really good day. A few drinks of one beer isn't anywhere near enough to do anything for him. It's not his wedding anniversary or Cole's birthday. Or death.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut. It's just been a regular day. A great one. Nothing has gone wrong. He's not even fucking unhappy for once. He's--

Oh fuck, he's _happy_.

Hank sinks down onto the linoleum on shaking legs. Of course he wanted to kill himself when he was always drunk and the house was empty and no one would have given a shit. But now he has Connor and he promised Connor would have him and--shit, he'd even been thinking future-thoughts that assumed he'd still fucking be alive to make Connor a raspberry tart, and then he'd still went and thought about killing himself. On one of the happiest days he can remember.

So what the fuck is he going to do the next time he has a bad day?

"Hank?"

Fuck fuck fuck. He wants to go back to the dog park someday because Sumo deserves it for putting up with all his shit, and Connor will have a blast running around with him, and he can drink beer beneath that big tree he likes and spoil them both with food when he gets tired, but the bitch of it all is--

He has to be alive to do that.

And he wants to do that.

So.

"Hank, are you experiencing chest pain? Dizziness? Does your neck or arm feel tight?"

He lets Connor pull him into a half-embrace and shakes his head. He's having an existential crisis, not a heart attack. Shit, Connor's LED is practically bleeding red. Because Connor would be sad if he was gone. And he'd be sad too to miss out

miss out??

miss out on spending time with him. Eating meals together and playing with Sumo and making fun of Gavin's small dog complex. Less than a fucking year and his life has gone through something to be endured and hated to something he doesn't want to miss out on.

"M'not having a heart attack," he finally manages to say.

Connor's LED continues to swirl red as he obviously scans Hank. "You do not need medical assistance then?"

"Fuck, no." Hank tries to let his head thunk back against the cabinets, but Connor's hand is already there to cradle the back of his skull. "Sorry. I just ..."

Sumo succeeds in wriggling past Connor to attempt climbing into Hank's lap despite very much being too large to be a lapdog.

"Sumo!" Connor snaps.

Both dog and Hank stare up at him, because Connor has never, ever used a voice with Sumo that wasn't completely adoring. Hank feels another fresh wave of guilt wash over him and grabs Connor's face.

"Hey, hey, I'm fine," he says. "I uh, was having some real bad thoughts there for a moment. But not--nothing--Sumo can stay. He helps with the thoughts."

The light at Connor's temple slowly dips from red into yellow and he lifts the arm barred between the two of them to let Sumo claim his rightful place. Hank mumbles nonsense to him and lets him lick and sniff all over his face to be certain he's OK, while Connor relaxes by millimeters at his side.

"I thought about killing myself," Hank says with forced casualty.

Connor doesn't reply. The only sound for a very long moment is Hank's breathing and Sumo's heavy panting as he gets behind-the-ears scratches. Not Connor's breathing. Hank turns to look at him to be sure, and the android isn't moving a single muscle.

"Breathe, Connor."

Connor draws in air like he's trying to strain in a single PSI at a time. Hank waits, but the single inhale is all he gets. 

"I don't want to kill myself right now."

Connor exhales with a woosh, his whole body sagging down against Hank's side. With a bit of squirming, he gets his other arm not occupied with Sumo wrapped around Connor's shoulders so the android can press his face into his neck.

"Right now, at this very second, I uh ... don't want to die."

It feels weird to say that. He's lived for so long thinking that was an eventuality that he sometimes put off, but would happen someday. Couldn't think of his future in any other way. Now he's thinking of raspberries and his dog and a plain little white box. Which almost starts up a round of even worse inappropriate giggles than this morning. He wants to stay alive because there's a slim chance he might get to see some good dick. His college self would be so proud.

Instead, he takes a deep breath of his own. "I want to clean up the kitchen and make you a tart."

Connor's breathing is still jerky against his neck, but at least he's trying again. "What ... is that?"

"It's like a lazy pie. Since you liked the raspberry cheesecake so much, I thought, uhh."

Connor wiggles closer, and Sumo scoots over to lay down on the floor with a huff. They both devote a few moments to spoiling him with pettings so he knows he's still the favorite in this household. Hank can feel Connor relax a bit more as his breathing "sub-routine" evens out, and he's certain Connor is scanning him too. So he forces out the confession while he still has the courage to speak.

"I don't want to throw this all away because I have one bad day."

Hank has to keep his eyes squeezed shut, ignoring his own advice as he holds his breath waiting for Connor's response.

"I love you." Connor keeps his face buried in his neck as he says it. "I know I'm not supposed to tell you yet, and I do not mean to pressure--"

"Christ, Connor, I know." Hank can't stop himself from brushing a kiss against his LED, even as his stomach tightens. "You take such good fucking care of me. I know, and I know I don't deserve--"

Connor's face is suddenly right in front of his own, a stiff finger jabbing into his chest. "Stop it. You are _my_ human, and I love you, and you cannot stop me."

Hank gives a wet, shaky laugh. "Yeah. Whole fucking city knows you can't be stopped."

Sumo looks between the two of them, then gets up with a huff to trot into the living room. He probably still remembers how it is when his owners get too affectionate from Hank's marriage. Not that--Connor slides fully into his lap as soon as the space is vacated, so shit. Maybe it is like that. He has tears in the corners of his eyes and Hank's own lashes feel a bit wet themselves. His hands automatically drift down to his partner's hips, while his eyes dip down to his lips.

"So ..." Hank can't stop staring at him. "You wanna make out?"

Connor laughs. In a shocking turn of events, Hank actually doesn't feel like shit for getting laughed at. He knows Connor isn't making fun of him or laughing at the idea of ever kissing him. Maybe that knowledge won't last very long--emotional impermanence is a hell of a drug--but right now, he was telling the truth when he said he knows Connor loves him.

"Does that mean I should cancel the ambulance?" he asks.

"What--shit, yes!"

Connor gives another light chuckle. Probably just teasing him again, but it's damn hard to tell with the android. His LED cycling back over to yellow again is a dead giveaway though.

"Were you joking about ... the kissing?"

Hank flushes and clears his throat. "Yeah. I know it's been a really big day for you, so let's--uh, let's get off the floor, first."

Connor stands so easily, no aches in his joints or clumsy grabbing for the counter top. He offers his hand to Hank, who huffs out his pride and takes it. Then they're holding hands, drifting close together again until their chests brush against each other.

"And second?" Connor asks, eyes searching Hank's face.

His throat clicks as he tries to swallow. He just had a panic attack on the kitchen floor, maybe cried a little bit, and spoke more honestly about his suicidal thoughts than he has in years. And here this kind, beautiful, perfect man is, still here and wanting to kiss his old ugly mug.

"Do you want to ..." Hank's voice gives out and he licks his lips.

"I want to practice regular kissing before moving on to," Connor's face scrunches up a little in Very Serious consideration. "Advanced maneuvers."

Hank chuckles. "Advanced maneuvers, huh?"

Connor returns his grin. "I wouldn't want you to throw your back out."

And there's really only so much a man can take. Hank reaches his limit right then, smiling so hard he doesn't even know how he'll make the kiss work but going for it anyway. Connor's lips are stiff against his own, unmoving and puckered up too much. He draws back a bit but cups Connor's face to let him know he's not going anywhere. The silly android isn't breathing again. He just barely pecks his lips a second time.

"Breathe, Con."

\--

Connor trawls through all his sub-routines to find and activate his breathing protocols, even though he'd much rather focus entirely on analyzing Hank's own breath. He licks his lips to taste the chaste little kiss Hank left on them. There's just enough moisture for his analysis program to identify Hank Anderson.

His human.

"Just relax," Hank murmurs 2.1 centimeters from his lips.

Connor sets his breathing to sync with Hank's own and when he checks on the statistics of his thirium pump, he's pleased to find that has synced with Hank's heartbeat automatically. The human's thumbs rub little circles against his cheeks, and his programming slowly falls away until only the mission objective [Learn to Kiss Hank] remains.

"That's it." Hank's right hand shifts to cradle the back of his skull, fingers rubbing pleasantly against his scalp. "My good boy."

Those simple words send so much pleasure shivering through his system that three internal heat warnings and a thirium pump error message pop up.

"Hank," Connor breathes.

 _Whines_ might be more accurate. It just feels so right to hear Hank call him his. Hank is his human, and Connor is ... he shudders again. His good boy. That thought makes him want to use profanity. Say the word fuck-- _demand_ the word fuck. Logically, he knows it's too soon for both of them, and actually attempting to have sexual intercourse with Hank this evening feels too big to wrap his mind around. His multi-million dollar processor, ground to a halt, from two chaste kisses and three words.

"You uh." Hank blushes as he clears his throat. "Might want to turn down your sensitivity settings, or whatever, on your uhh ... down there."

"I'm not wearing it."

If Hank had an LED, Connor's certain it would be spinning yellow at the moment. He blinks several times, glances quickly down between them, then looks around the kitchen like he might find some other source for Connor's arousal. The Auto Theft Unit has been experiencing a series of hacked-and-jacked autonomous vehicles, and the lack of physical suspects and digital evidence has earned the perpetrator the nickname "Ghost Jacker." Which has led to many inappropriate jokes. Connor calculates that bringing up the Ghost Jacker now in response to Hank's confusion would decrease his chances of kissing the human again by thirty-seven percent.

It also does not make logical sense because, as he informed Hank, he is not wearing his new #6107p attachment. It is still stored safely in the box, inside the nightstand on his side of the bed, for later experimentation.

"So you can still get ...?" Hank leans back a little and sweeps his gaze back over Connor.

"I have stated before that you cause sexual arousal," he says. "Technically, I don't need an attachment to experience attraction or orgasm, but I found the experience frustrating. Limiting."

He presses closer on the last word, but the chances of them resuming their previous activity continues to drop steadily. 

"But right now, I would like to kiss you."

"You sure?"

"Hank, do you remember when I said I wouldn't jump you?" Connor asks, reconstructing the kitchen to map out all possible escape routes and how he can block them. "I am rescinding that. I will download a kissing program and--"

"Whoa, whoa, hey." Hank grabs his shoulders. "Don't ..."

He looks guilty, but guilt is always a strong underlying emotion when Hank feels sexually attracted to him. He is also clearly adverse to the idea of Connor downloading a program. Worried about viruses? 28% possibility. Uncomfortable with the reminder that Connor is an android? 2% possibility, given he accompanied him to Cyberlife. 

Connor lowers his voice to a murmur and looks up through his lashes. "Or would you prefer to teach me?"

Heart rate increased to 113 BPM. Increased sweat levels and blood flow, primarily to groin region. Analyzing facial expression, recognized: embarrassment, guilt, longing. 98% chance that the conclusion is correct.

Hank swallows hard, not making eye contact for a moment before he mutters fuck and cups Connor's cheek again. Sub-task complete. Restart objective [Learn to Kiss Hank]. Offer incentive to keep Hank on task.

"Please, Hank?"

"You're a goddamn tease."

His words are muttered nearly against Connor's lips though, and then Hank closes the distance between them. Their lips stay pressed together for 3.6 seconds this time before he draws back. The physical sensation alone honestly isn't very much. His sensors registered warmth and pressure, and it is sometimes difficult for his processor to translate that into pleasure, even as a deviant. But he very much enjoys the larger sensations of warmth and pressure from Hank's hands on his head and their bodies pressing together, and the act of kissing is synonymous among humans to providing comfort and love.

Hank needs that, and Connor wants to be the one to provide it to him.

"Ready for some intermediate moves, or is this good?" Hank asks quietly.

Connor's pleasure sensors do activate over Hank's voice though, especially when it's pitched low and quiet. This version is very close to his Authority Voice that Connor only gets to hear on the rare occasion at work, usually directed at criminals, which is very unfair. They do not deserve to be rewarded for their crimes.

"Define intermediate." He doesn't mean for his voice to come out that breathy, almost teasing.

"Gonna kiss you proper," Hank growls.

And oh, now it's almost identical. Connor whines, too high and tinny to be human, but Hank doesn't seem to mind. If anything, his pupils dilate further. He presses their lips back together, but this time, they move. His hand in Connor's hair tilts his head to the side, and the change in angle results in their lips sliding together in a new way. Hank's beard is even more interesting this way, more so than the time Connor had convinced him to allow an analysis done with his fingers, because it tickles against his lips now, which are so much more sensitive.

When he captures Connor's bottom lip between his own, Connor realizes why quick kisses are considered public-appropriate but long ones are not. He is also suddenly very thankful he chose not to wear his attachment this evening, because the sensation from his lips and hands and Hank's big warm body--

Connor breaks the kiss and buries his face in Hank's neck. His palms rub repeatedly over the human's upper arms, registering the tactile sensation of the worn t-shirt he's wearing in contrast to the firm muscle below. Their mouths hadn't opened to give his analysis equipment a chance to operate, but even though he's fast approaching a system overload, Connor swipes his tongue over Hank's neck to get the sample he needs.

"This isn't taking it slow, Connor."

Hank's deep voice sends another wave of pleasure crashing over him, and his audio processor plays the way the lieutenant just said his name over and over again. He rubs his tongue more firmly against the warm skin beneath it, programming automatically sending out a hazy sense of satisfaction at taking an analysis. Hank's taste and information is familiar and comforting, and Connor wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening licking every part of him he can get.

Licking into his mouth.

Connor shudders at that thought so hard he has to rely almost entirely on Hank to support his weight. That is a part of kissing. They could do that. Logically, he knows Hank can't analyze him back, but his system isn't making much use of logic right now and the thought feels like an open mouth connection would be very similar to interfacing.

An insistent finger taps against his LED. "Hey."

Hank's voice somehow isn't firm in a good way anymore. It might be the undercurrent of worry to it or the way his hands have dropped to Connor's hips only to enforce an inch of separation to them. Connor withdraws his tongue and automatically runs a diagnostic check to determine how he messed this up. The results ping back that his newly upgraded sensitivity settings have been turned up to their safe maximum, even though he specifically set them lower when he left Cyberlife so he could focus on the experience of eating.

"I apologize," he says, unable to lift his head and face Hank. "My sensitivity settings seem to have malfunctioned and maxed out."

Hank snorts. "You don't say?"

Connor doesn't say. He knows Hank won't hold it against him--the human never does, no matter how awkward he sometimes (usually) makes things as an android--but ... he huffs out a frustrated sigh against Hank's shoulder. It would have been nice if he could have made it through their second kiss without embarrassing himself.

"Hey." Interfacing or not, Hank seems to read his mind. "Don't worry about it. I already fucked up your first kiss anyway."

That gets Connor to snap his head up. "You did _not_. I have conducted thirty-six hours of research on first kisses, and ours did not involve excessive use of tongue, interruption by a parental figure, any mishaps with braces or piercings, premature eja--"

Hank's laughter drowns out his list of possible worst case scenarios. "Thirty-six hours, huh Con?"

"Yes," Connor replies, aware his voice has taken on a tone the human calls _prim_ but unable to change it. "Although I enjoy spending the night with you, I don't need to sleep the entire time."

Hank opens his mouth, then coughs and looks away. Connor waits for him to ask what other sorts of things he's "researched" while in their bed, but Hank lets the moment drag on.

"I will make sure to keep my sensitivity settings in check next time," he says when it become apparent he'll have to fill the silence.

"Are we done with this time?" Hank asks.

The question makes his LED spin a lazy yellow cycle. He expected to receive a deflection or maybe even an argument about the existence of a "next time," so the new topic is difficult to consider. And even though he's assured Hank several times by now that he'll say no to anything he doesn't want to do, now that the moment is here, it's a lot more difficult than he anticipated. He wants to make Hank happy, and the vast majority of new things they've tried together have been very good experiences for him. Kissing certainly will not hurt him either. He's just tired, and he is more than capable of pushing himself if it means--

Connor shuts down that thought. He promised Hank, and he's already told Markus, Ben, and Dr. Giuliano he wouldn't do this. He doesn't want to prove their concerns for his agency right.

"Yes." He forces his eyes open to gauge Hank's reaction. "I enjoyed myself, but I would like to be done now."

"All right." Hank's hand rubs a soothing path up and down his side. "Do you want to try supper or just watch some TV for a bit?"

Connor saves this outcome for future situational analysis. If he says no to an activity, Hank will respect that decision and offer alternatives. He knew this is what would happen before now of course, but the real actual confirmation is intensely gratifying.

"--need some time alone, I can--"

He snaps back outside of his own internal processing and shakes his head. "No. I like being near you. Are you still interested in making a tart?"

Hank blinks, then thinks it over. "Yeah. We just ... don't have any raspberries. Or uh. Shit, I don't even know if I have the right sorta pans."

When he is the lieutenant at work, Hank is very good at knowing what to do next. Even though he takes breaks more frequently than Connor would prefer, several times "letting that shit percolate" in his "brain pan" has resulted in a new angle of investigation or unexpected breakthrough. But at home, he sometimes struggles to break an objective down into simple tasks. Connor knows that often frustrates him, so he tries not to feel too eager at the opportunity to step in and be helpful, even as he sets a new mission objective [Help Hank Bake a Tart] and breaks it down into eight sub-tasks.

"We can go grocery shopping," Connor offers. "If you're up for leaving the house again. It would give us the opportunity to stock the kitchen for the new recipes I'd like to try."

"Yeah. I just." Hank pauses and takes a deep breath, not making eye contact. "I should--fuck, I should probably go to therapy. About. Shit. Uh, so I can ..."

Sitting down at his computer, researching therapists, making a decision, consulting his work schedule, making a sticky-note reminder to call tomorrow during business hours, remembering to call tomorrow during business hours, and actually booking the appointment is far too many sub-tasks over too long of a time frame for Hank to realistically maintain the motivation and executive function to accomplish.

Meanwhile, Connor has an email drafted and ready to send to Dr. Giuliano at this very moment.

"I can make you an appointment," he says.

But the suggestion makes Hank scowl. "Fuck's sake Connor, I'm an old ass adult and you're not my mother. I can make my own appointments."

"I want to help," Connor presses. "Do I need to repeat my earlier speech? You are my human and I love--"

" _Connor_."

He increases his voice volume by 10% to speak over him. " **And I love you** , and you cannot stop me."

Hank lets out a long sigh and looks up at the ceiling. Weakness. Press until objective achieved.

"I am very proud of you for--"

"All right, all right."

Success. Connor rewards Hank's compliance with a smile.

"Do you mind also speaking to Dr. Giuliano, or would you prefer that we have separate therapists?"

"If she's good enough for you, she's sure as hell good enough for me," Hank grumbles.

Connor lets that slight bit of self-deprecation slide in favor of booking Hank a therapy appointment to discuss his suicidal thoughts. He hasn't pressed it because the sixty-two self help books he read all recommended that people suffering from depression, drug addiction, and other mental illnesses need to make these steps themselves, but Hank finally seeking help settles a low level buzz of anxiety he hadn't been fully aware of until now.

"Done. Can tarts be made with fruits other than raspberry?" he asks.

Hank looks back down at him, and the corners of his mouth twitch up into a fond smile. "Yeah, but peaches are better in cobblers and apples make good crisps."

"What's a crisp?"

"Has oats and brown sugar to make it crunchy. Everything makes a good pie though." Hank's voice grows serious again. "And hey. Thanks. For ... sticking around."

"Likewise."

That makes a series of microexpressions flit across Hank's face, mostly different shades of worry and guilt. But his human has already come so far from when he couldn't even promise that he would stick around to actively seeking therapy. Connor is proud of him for making progress, and now he has a new way of expressing that without talking about it, since Hank does not do well with the discussion of feelings.

"May I still have one more little kiss?" Connor asks.

Hank's face relaxes into a smile, and he cups Connor's cheek again.

"Yeah, one more little kiss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: I love you bitch
> 
> Hank: you're still new and you don't know--
> 
> Connor, at full volume: AND I AIN'T EVER GONNA STOP LOVING YOU
> 
> Hank, sobbing: blease don't
> 
> Connor, bass blasted: **BITCH**
> 
> ps: the "fancy" Italian restaurant was Olive Garden and Connor asked Hank with big adoring eyes if this was the restaurant with the meme breadsticks


	17. And They Were Boyfriends!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the promised chapter of Connor deciding to experiment with masturbating for the first time on the living room couch while pure sweet innocent Hank is minding his own business making supper. rip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one is a little late! like I said, I can't risk writing / editing / posting smutty things at work, so I had to wait for my day off to get this chapter ready and post it. the good news though: rating change!! we're finally at the BURN part of slow burn >:D
> 
> check the added tags for what sort of shenanigans Connor gets up to!

Connor lays snuggled up in the world’s softest blanket on the couch while Hank fixes dinner, and he's sleepily thinking about touching his cock.

He’s experimented with the full range of subroutines, of course. But that had been a mechanical sort of curiosity. Standing in front of the mirror and watching his new attachment grow and then soften, twitch a little bit, and leak some fluid to be sure the tubing connected to his lubrication reservoirs could properly function for the sake of ejaculation as well. He hadn’t thought of anything at the time other than scrolling through dialogue boxes and task prompts.

Now he thinks about if Hank would let him touch his chest hair.

The thought isn’t particularly arousing, in a human sense. The sensors at the tips of his fingers tingle with more interest than the ones in his cock, but that doesn’t make the urge—the _desire_ —any less intense. He absently pets the underside of the blanket cocooned around him and wonders if Hank’s chest hair would be this soft.

And really, it isn't his fault at all that he’s feeling so … horny? Connor runs through his vocabulary database and decides with a slight blush that slutty might be a better word for his current mood, since he’s considering masturbating in the living room with Hank less than twenty feet away.

There are two perfectly valid reasons for his mood. One, the upgrade to his sensors allows him to finally feel the world as humans do, and possibly more sensitive than that at the highest setting. Many things are much more pleasurable now than they were before, so it makes perfect logical sense that he wants to indulge in new tactile sensations.

And two, Hank did not deny that they were “boyfriends” when Ben made an offhand joke about it at work today. He had only told his friend to “shut the fuck up about it” which implied the statement was true, just not work appropriate.

Masturbating in public is inappropriate.

Masturbating at home, while only in the company of one’s own boyfriend is acceptable.

Doing it without advance warning or permission may be a bit questionable, but Connor doubts Hank will _mind_ , per se. And if he keeps it all under the blanket, then that cuts out any unwanted exposure to genitals as well, so really--

And Sumo is asleep in his dog bed, so--

And Hank has his hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, so--

Connor silently slips his fingers underneath the elastic of his boxer briefs. He opted to have pubic hair, but only small triangle of curls that match the hair on his head. No treasure trail, because he put a dark freckle just above and to the left that he can’t wait for Hank to see.

“You want wheat rolls or cornbread muffins?"

Hank’s voice brings thirium blood rushing to his face. Maybe he shouldn’t do this here and now, but the preconstructions he’d ran of masturbating for the first time alone in an empty room seemed … depressing.

“Rolls, please."

Hank hums in response, and Connor slides his hand down to fully cup his cock. He can fit it easily in his hand without an erection, and he's estimated--multiple times--that even with one, Hank's hand would come close to enveloping it. The sensation of his own hand still feels nice, but nowhere near the hot-lava feeling he'd experienced the two times Hank pinned him down with his body weight--oh, that's a little bit better. It seems thinking of Hank is central to his masturbatory success.

Hmm. Pushing Hank's shirt up and touching his chest.

The preconstruction does send a jolt of desire through him, but it still feels more android than human. His programming muscles its way into the hypothetical scenario, steering the preconstruction toward monitoring Hank's heart rate at optimal efficiency with no barriers between his hands and the human's chest, analyzing the sweat levels in his armpits, running a comparison between the coarser hairs on his chest to short hairs of his beard and the long soft hair on his head. While Hank would probably indulge him, those are not conventional parts of having sex.

And Connor wants that human feeling. Where the preconstructions and mission prompts all fall away so there’s nothing but Hank and the way his body _feels_.

He presses his fingertips more firmly against the head of his cock and switches to a new scenario—kissing Hank. They’ve done so several more times since his second official kiss in the kitchen, but they’ve all been short and chaste.

What if Hank allowed him to lick inside his mouth?

Connor shivers on the couch while the real Hank bustles around in the kitchen. In his fantasy though, Hank keeps a tight grip on his hair and teaches him how to kiss for real. How much better would a sample be directly from the human’s mouth?

Real-Hank turns around. “You say something, Con?"

Connor blinks back at him as innocently as he can manage. “No."

“Yeah?” Hank leans a hip back against the counter and looks him over. “Thought I heard something."

“I just yawned."

“Mmm."

They make eye contact for another three-point-six seconds before Hank lets it go and turns back around. Connor mutes his voice box to prevent anymore accidental moans and takes an actual grip on his cock, loose around the base--

“You gonna stay awake ’til dinner?”

Connor freezes, eyes snapping back open to check that Hank hasn’t turned back around. He relaxes a little when he sees that he hasn’t, but now he has to unmute himself again to reply.

He really should take his hand off his cock to do that.

“Yes, Hank."

His cock twitches against his palm, and he has to quickly stifle another moan the old-fashioned way by biting his lip. Hank makes another neutral hum, but Connor’s processor is quick to offer up a recording of the much deeper growl-noise he’d made in that same kitchen when Connor had licked his hand.

Oh, there’s—that’s the start of it. That feeling. He gives his cock one slow stroke, lips pressed tightly together to stay quiet. His preconstruction software is state of the art, conjuring up a scene of himself and Hank worthy of any porno. Better than one, most likely, since there’s no dialogue because Hank is slowly pressing his fingers inside of Connor’s mouth.

The real Connor deactivates his voice box once more around gritted teeth. No, relax his jaw. Can’t hurt Hank. His tongue licks the roof of his mouth while he simulates what it would feel like to have Hank’s fingers there instead. He’s had his own in his mouth often enough, but Hank’s would be rougher and— _thicker_.

Precum dribbles down his fingers and Connor remembers he’s supposed to be stroking his cock too.

But maybe he shouldn’t. He’s trying to keep this subtle, and he honestly doesn’t know if he can handle imagining Hank’s fingers in his mouth _and_ stroking himself at the same time.

Then again, Hank still hasn’t turned around yet.

He’s searching up in the tall cabinets, one hand gripping the edge while he shuffles spices around with the other. Connor should zoom in on the spice labels to tell him which one he’s missing, but he focuses on the right angle his arm makes instead, thick biceps and a meaty forearm visible past a t-shirt sleeve that’s ridden up to his shoulder.

The fantasy shifts to accommodate Hank’s free arm wrapping tight around Connor’s chest, hand splayed against his ribs—hand gripping his chin—hand wrapped around his throat, _yes_. Wrapped around his throat, not squeezing, grip just firm enough to feel Connor swallow around his fingers.

The real Connor’s hips make the earlier decision for him by lifting off the couch cushions to push his cock through the loose ring of his fingers.

But that’s only the foreplay. Sucking on fingers in most pornography is a precursor to fellatio or anal sex. Even though it seems he could easily get off on that alone, Connor impatiently speeds through that part of the preconstruction to—

Wait, no, yes, Hank is the one who’s impatient, a big hand on his shoulder pushing him to his knees, right in front of—

**[saved image of Hank braced back against the counter with an erection pushing against his boxers]**

Connor had been on the floor when that happened too. Not on his knees, just sitting down from laughing, but they had made eye contact for eleven-point-nine seconds then and he would have crawled across the floor and performed fellatio on Hank if he had just said he could.

Hank gives him permission in his fantasy. Feeds his erection into Connor’s mouth one slow inch at a time, and the sample would be so good, flesh hot and thick in his mouth, so much bigger than his fingers.

Connor shudders, grip now tight around the base of his own cock. The attachment’s subroutine pops open a dialogue box to helpfully inform him he is 92% of the way to orgasm, but he flicks it away. He wants to savor this, and Hank is busy cooking. Connor should stay still and quiet on his knees so Hank can concentrate. He’ll just keep the human’s cock warm for him, no more missions or threat assessments, only Hank’s cock in his mouth and his hand in his hair, sometimes petting him and telling him he’s a good boy.

**[audio recording: “My good boy.”]**

**[subroutine (Orgasm) for attachment #6107p 97% complete. run subroutine (Ejaculate) y/n?]**

Connor mentally slaps the notification out of his sight and focuses on regulating his breathing to help cool down his systems. He’d at least had the foresight to turn off notifications of system overheating while not at work after how often those annoying little dialogues distracted from kissing Hank, but it seems like he’ll have to adjust these settings as well.

And perhaps experiencing his first orgasm while Hank is all the way across the room is a bit daunting as well. He prefers to have his human—now his boyfriend, his _boyfriend_ —with him during new experiences. Plus, dinner might be ready soon.

Yes, actually, almost fifteen minutes have passed, and the rolls Hank buys are the precooked kind that only need to be defrosted and heated up in the oven.

Connor opens his eyes and quickly focuses on the kitchen. The rolls are back out of the oven, and Hank is still stirring the stew cooking on the stovetop. Nothing seems amiss, but when he automatically runs a scan on Hank, the human’s heart rate is suspiciously elevated, and his temperature is concentrated in both his chest and his groin.

Oops.

\--

Hank is going to lose his whole entire shit. He’s going to shit his pants and mail them directly to Cyberlife, personally addressed to whoever saw fit to make Connor this slutty.

“You gonna stay awake ’til dinner?” he asks, voice as steady as he can make it.

Connor breathes “Yes, Hank” like he owes rent money and wants to work out a deal. Fuck, this should be illegal, but he’s not really sure which one of them deserves to be arrested.

Great, now he’s thinking about shitty porno role-play and Connor in handcuffs. Calling him lieutenant again. And where the hell does this deviant little shit get off on--

In the goddamn living room, _apparently_ , is where the hell this deviant little shit is getting off.

Not like he’d been able to pry his hand off his dick when he’d first discovered what it was good for, but still. Connor is a lot smarter than him, and yet, here they are. Also, he’d really rather not think of Connor being that young.

Christ, OK, he should definitely be the one getting arrested between the two of them.

But he’s just gonna … let Connor experiment. In the living room. Right goddamn now. Maybe he feels safe here. Maybe it’s that blanket.

Is it the blanket?

The oven beep announcing the pre-heat is done makes him flinch guiltily, even though _he’s_ not even doing anything. It doesn’t do shit to stop Connor though, who’s still making breathy little exhales from the couch. If he listens really closely, he can hear the shift of fabric.

Shit, maybe it is the blanket. But when Hank had joked in the Bed, Bath, & Beyond that Connor was going buckwild for the soft throw, he hadn’t expected the damn android to literally--

JesusfuckingChrist.

Hank tries to ignore it. All the sharp inhales and long, shuddery exhales. At least he isn’t fucking moaning anymore. But this is his … well, maybe his boyfriend. They haven’t really talked about it, which is one hundred percent his own fault.

He only takes a little peek. A quick one. It still hits him like a punch to the gut.

Connor’s eyes squeezed shut, cheeks tinted blue as he pants through an open mouth. There's a bulge from his hand down at his crotch, but it’s not even moving, so what the _fuck_ is he thinking about that’s got him so worked up?

Is it him?

Common sense says no. There’s no way a guy like that is fantasizing about a guy like him. But it’s possible Hank’s Common Sense Voice is also his Depression Voice. Connor never does anything the normal way either, god bless him, so maybe ...

Hank reaches up to shuffle needlessly through his spice cabinet. He feels ridiculous, deliberately posing his arm like a douchey teenager, but then he flexes and immediately hears a soft sigh from the living room.

Well, shit. It is him.

It’s stupid and unbelievable and—he can’t stop smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of the two of them. Ben deserves to rag on them as much as he wants from now on.

He still lets Connor carry on uninterrupted though, mostly because he’s curious to see how this will play out. Does the big doofus even have a game plan for how he’s going to finish? Well, he does do all the laundry, and it’s his blanket, sooo.

Hank takes the rolls out of the oven without any whistles or commentary on his ass when he bends over, and he has to turn the burner off for the stew while he waits for Connor to … be done.

When it’s finally quiet again, the silence doesn’t come after any particularly loud gasp or even a whimper, so he’s unsure if Connor really has finished.

Ugh, the deviant asshole would love that pun.

“You ready for supper?” he asks without turning around, just in case.

“Yeah."

Well that’s the first time he’s ever heard prim and proper Connor use slang like that. He checks behind him to see Connor avoiding eye contact like Sumo when he catches him scratching the chair before laying down to make it more comfortable.

Hank ladles out two bowls of stew and tosses some rolls on a paper plate before making his way over to the living room. He’s not really sure if Connor is even going to want him to sit on the couch next to him the way they normally do while eating supper and watching late night shows, but the android gathers up his blanket and scoots over to make room.

“How did you know?” Connor shoots him a slightly pouty look. “I muted my voice box."

Hank can’t stop from snorting as he settles in. “I was the youngest officer to ever be promoted to lieutenant, and you really thought you could get away with rubbing one out in the living room?"

That brings the prettiest blue blush to Connor’s cheeks, and he quickly takes a bite of stew to avoid answering.

“Turn off your breathing too next time,” Hank advises.

“Oh. Shit."

Hank laughs, then sneaks a quick look sideways to be sure Connor isn’t worried about it. Their eyes meet until Connor shyly looks down.

“Do I need to apologize?” he asks.

Hank shakes his head, voice gruff when he answers. “Nah. Just … why now?"

Connor sighs and leans sideways to rest against his shoulder. Hank lifts his arm to wrap it around him instead, enjoying how his maybe-boyfriend immediately snuggles up to him.

“You were here,” he murmurs. “And I felt warm and safe."

“Uh huh."

“And the blanket—"

“I knew it was that goddamn blanket."

Connor chuckles, and Hank really can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to his temple, right over the cute blue light. He also can’t help trying to subtly sneak another look, this time down at the android’s crotch.

“Did you, uhhh …?"

“No, I did not achieve orgasm, Hank.” Connor twists more fully to the side to bat his big pretty eyes at him. “But if you would ever like to assist me …"

Hank can feel his face make a grimace, which of course results in Connor tensing up beside him. He tries to explain, but Connor is already drawing a breath first, undoubtedly ready to lecture him on his negative self image or how he should respect his agency.

“Lemme explain first,” Hank grumbles. “Then you can clap back at me, or what-the-fuck-ever the youth are calling it these days."

Connor exhales like he’s slowly lowering a gun.

“I just want you to figure out what you like on your own first,” he says. “‘Cause I know you want to make me happy, and you like doing shit that does it, so I don’t want you mistaking _shit Hank likes and that makes me happy_ for _shit I like and that makes me happy_."

For once, Connor actually doesn’t argue back with him and destroy his entire argument. Instead, he seems to really think it over, LED swirling yellow again for a long moment.

“I need to gather independent data,” he finally surmises.

Hank gives a fond snort. “Yeah, Con. Go hypothesize your variables, and then you can tell me what you like and I’ll tell you mine. Equivalent exchange, and all that."

Connor pulls a face at the deliberate and blatant misuse of terminology, but unfortunately his pissy face just looks cute as hell.

“Can I use the toys in your drawer?” he asks, clearly as part of his evil revenge.

Hank’s brain stalls out for a hot second, but he gets it together enough to ask, “You gonna need to keep the blanket too?"

Connor pauses for an even longer moment than he had, clearly thinking over his response, probably preconstructing all of Hank’s possible reactions to like, three hundred and sixty-seven different lines or something.

In the end, he lifts the blanket up to his face and tenderly strokes the side, whispering to it, “He’s just jealous we have something special."

Hank laughs, pulling Connor back to his side.

Definitely going to make this smartass his boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, and they were boyfriends ...
> 
> also: please imagine Hank drunk with three Connors, trying to pick each of them up and smooshing their faces, crying about how he can't protect them all while the Connors earnestly try to convince him that they will protect HIM


	18. Sweet Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank deliberately jacks off in the shower while Connor can still hear him as payback for the living room incident. Connor uses the opportunity to explore his kinks and discovers--he has an authority kink and REALLY wants to suck Hank's cock
> 
> pls like and subscribe for more shocking revelations, guaranteed to leave u shooketh ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emphasis on "sweet" for this chapter. as in, tooth-rotting fluff of course
> 
> I'm also adding tags as I go along with chapters that have sexual stuff in them. since we're still just in the realm of Hank and Connor's fantasies, I'm not adding all of these tags to the main fic so people don't get disappointed, but for this chapter specifically **(spoilers!):** orgasm denial, cum eating / feeding, finger-fucking Connor's mouth, doggy-style; cock-warming, semi-public sex, authority kink. for Hank and Connor's fantasies, respectively
> 
> as always, no daddy kink, but Connor certainly does make use of Hank's _position_ as a lieutenant, hence the authority kink
> 
> anyway, enjoy!!

Hank gets the idea for revenge while in the shower. His dick gets on board first, but it doesn’t take much convincing to get his fist wrapped around it.

After all, Connor had started this little game.

In their goddamn living room. Jesus. At least Hank always had the decency to wait until Connor took Sumo out for a walk. And to think, he felt guilty about it afterwards, like he was the pervert between them. And then here Connor is, fucking, _in the living room._

Hank leans forward against the slick wall with a groan, burying his face in the crook of his arm braced up above him so can squeeze his eyes shut and remember Connor’s face, mouth open, cheeks blue--

Gonna be the fucking death of him.

He’d wanted to rip that damn blanket off and make that slutty little twink show him everything. Jack Connor off nice and slow until he’s right at the edge, then make him rut off against his still hand without any stroking as punishment.

Shove his fingers in the android’s mouth afterwards and make him lick them clean.

“ _Fuck_."

The word feels punched out of him as Hank rocks into his fist. Connor probably hears that. Serves him right, teasing like that. Hank didn’t think it could get any worse than his goddamn oral fixation, shoving everything even vaguely liquid or phallic into his mouth, but oh no, that asshole just has to be an overachiever.

Could he make him come just by abusing the analysis software in his mouth?

It works in his fantasy. That Connor moans around the taste of his own cum and lets Hank finger-fuck his pretty mouth open. He tries to beg with his mouth stuffed full, wriggling his hips to try to draw attention to his flushed little cock. Androids don’t have a refractory period, right?

Hank’s own dick definitely agrees. No refractory period, only fuck Connor through multiple orgasms. See how far down that pretty blue blush spreads. Maybe the tip of his cock will be tinged blue too. Maybe near purple by the time he’s done with it.

Hank can’t hold back another low noise from the back of his throat. He forces himself to slow down his strokes to a lazy grind, how he’d work himself over while fucking Connor’s throat with his fingers. Watch his boyfriend whimper and suck until hot tears start spilling over.

“Good boy, god, Connor."

That’s what makes the android come. Makes his warm brown eyes roll back in his head as he chokes himself on Hank’s fingers and shoots off over his stomach.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s—"

Hank can’t keep it slow anymore. Not in the shower and not in his fantasy, which adjusts to Connor bent over the back of the couch with no transition to accommodate the way he speeds up the strokes over his heavy cock.

Connor begs for more, legs spread wide with his pert ass up on top of the armrest. Hank pushes down between his shoulder blades to shove his chest into the couch so he can’t do anything but take it, but that doesn’t shut up his filthy fucking mouth, begging him to fill it too, fill him up from both ends and make him choke on it, please-please-please, oh Hank, please lieutenant--

Hank comes against the wall with a snarl that turns into a drawn out groan. Connor begging to get his mouth fucked is his favorite fantasy, but now he knows what the gorgeous android looks like being pleasured and it makes him come so hard he actually feels a bit light headed.

The guilt comes after, like it always does. As if Connor would say shit like that. As if Hank even still has the stamina to fuck him like that.

Hank rests his forehead against the wall and sighs.

Definitely gonna be the death of him.

\--

Connor only hears Hank start masturbating after he’s already removed his attachment and put it away for the evening. It had seemed like a good idea ten minutes ago, given how overwhelming his own attempt had been.

_Fuck._

Normally, he ignores the things he hears Hank mutter under his breath or say in another room, since a human wouldn’t be able to hear those things. But Hank is in the shower. There wasn't the sound of bottles falling or the water temperature adjusting before the expletive, which really only leaves one possibility.

So he should leave. That's what Connor has always done before when Hank has--needed "alone time."

Except he hears another groan and suddenly all of his joints are locked up. Like he can't physically make himself leave. Guess he'll have to stay.

Hank _did_ say he needed to discover what he likes. It's not his fault what he likes is Hank. And since the two of them aren't actually interacting, this is the perfect opportunity for him to determine his likes without accidentally letting Hank's reaction influence his decisions.

Also, he has the strong suspicion this is a form of payback, and if that's the case, it's practically an open invitation for him to observe.

Connor starts by sitting on the bed, feet flat on the floor, hands folded neatly in his lap, posture perfectly straight. [Listen to Hank Masturbate] appears as a mission in his peripheral vision. He adjusts his audio input to isolate the sounds of Hank's breathing and his voice as occasional moans slip free, simultaneously canceling out the sound of running water and the general white noise of the house.

He is going to listen so well, but his hands can't seem to stay still. They break out of their clasp, then rub against the fabric of his weekend sweat pants. The fabric doesn't feel as nice as the texture of the blanket, but the repetitive action feels soothing.

Should he be doing something else?

Putting on his new attachment again is out of the question, since those sensations would almost certainly interfere with his mission and he could miss valuable data. Maybe he should ... relax? Hank is always telling him to relax.

Connor lays backwards on the bed. Hank groans again from inside the bathroom. It feels like a brillo pad scraped directly against the raw plastic of his chassis, but somehow in a good way. A very good way.

He can't help but squirm a little, and then his system helpfully reminds him of the last time he was squirming on the bed while listening to Hank groan--except now Hank isn't above him, pinning him down.

Hmm.

Fuck.

Yes, the expletive was necessary because this is frustrating. He feels too restless, too much unfocused energy coursing through him. But at this point, Hank might finish before he can even get his attachment put back on and synced to his system. He needs something to clear his mind and keep him focused on the objective.

He stands up and quietly approaches a few feet closer to the bathroom door. He just needs--that _feeling_. When he's following his mission exactly right. When even that fades away and he doesn't have to think or analyze or do anything except ...

Obey.

Connor drops to his knees exactly three feet from the bathroom door. He grips his wrists behind his back and does a scan of himself to ensure his posture is perfect, then spreads his thighs apart two inches wider.

_Good boy, god, Connor._

He knows it's only coincidence. Has to be. Hank can't see his heat signature through walls to determine what he's doing, but Connor swears he almost short circuits from the praise.

Would Hank like to see what he's researched about submissives and Dominants? Does he have his own opinions already? This is just a generic submissive posture Connor has seen from the internet and maybe Hank prefers something different.

Maybe Hank will walk out the door and correct him. 

_Yeah, fuck, that's--_

Connor barely stops himself from making an answering moan. He would be good for Hank, he would be so good. He'd kneel like this anywhere for Hank. 

In the living room while Hank watches the news, resting his head on the human's thigh, letting him know he's not alone and how much Connor adores him. Maybe having his hair played with. Maybe nosing at the outline of his cock inside his briefs.

Or in the kitchen, beside the table as Hank sits and eats his dinner. Feeding could be a fun form of play, especially since Connor doesn't really need to do it. He could just accept whatever little pieces Hank wanted to feed him, licking those thick fingers clean. Nothing at all for maybe a whole hour except kneeling and Hank and Hank's fingers in his mouth.

Connor can't stop a whine at that thought, but he's past caring if Hank hears at this point. He'd suck the lieutenant off underneath his desk at the precinct if they wouldn't get caught.

Actually, it wouldn't be that difficult to hack the security cameras. And the officers' schedule is posted online under a sharepoint that he already has access to with Hank's password. He could certainly arrange for them to be relatively alone during the next night shift, replace the security footage with a loop of--

Hank's increased heart rate and heavier breathing indicate he is close to finishing however, so Connor quickly minimizes that task to focus on recording the deep growl Hank makes when he comes.

It's _beautiful_. The sound makes Connor shudder on his knees, analysis fluid flooding his mouth with the urge to take a sample.

Almost two minutes pass before he can pry himself up from the floor. As much as he'd love to still be kneeling when Hank exits the bathroom, he knows the human will be sleepy and ready for bed. 

And honestly, he probably needs a long period of stasis tonight too, with all the data he needs to process.

Luckily, Hank takes his time in the bathroom as he brushes his teeth. Connor manages to change into pajamas--which are different from weekend lounge-wear, he's learned--and get himself situated in bed, innocently reading his latest book. He's been working on learning to read one word at a time instead of automatically processing the whole book at once. It helps that Hank has some paperbacks that don't have a pdf version uploaded online.

Yes, a perfectly normal scenario.

\--

Hank steps out of the bathroom and doesn't buy the innocent act Connor's trying to put on for one second. First of all, his book is upside down.

Second piece of evidence: his lower lip is still spit-slick, probably because he's been biting it again, which he only does when he's concentrating very hard.

The third part is just a gut feeling from years of practice as both a cop and a dog owner, and Hank's gut instinct screams at him that the cute little fucker sitting in his bed is guilty of _something_.

"Did you have a nice shower, Hank?" Connor asks.

"Yup." Hank walks over to his side of the bed and gets in. "You enjoying that book?"

Connor seems to realize it's upside down, but he just plows right ahead. "Yes. I found that if I read it like this, I have to concentrate on each word, so I don't automatically process--"

Hank covers the pages with his hand and pushes the book down into his lap. Connor drops the act and shoots him a side-eye glare.

"You were teasing me."

" _I_ was--" Hank is scoffing too hard to even get the sentence out. "You??"

Connor looks up at him from underneath fluttering lashes. "I had already removed my attachment for the night, which was very ... frustrating."

Hank blinks. He can't really do anything else against the mental image of Connor's cock stored in a drawer somewhere. It's ... kind of hot? Jesus, he's got some screwed up kinks. He definitely shouldn't be thinking about taking Connor's cock away and still trying to make him come anyway. That'd show him some goddamn _teasing._

"I was left alone in here with my thoughts," Connor continues. "And you know I don't like to be unproductive, so I calculated the probability of successfully sucking you off beneath your desk without getting caught."

"Con--!" The syllable feels punched out of his gut. "How the hell ...?"

From the smirk on his evil boyfriend's face, he really shouldn't have asked.

"I can hack the security cameras to erase any ... compromising footage."

And then because Hank has no brain cells left but two fully functioning balls, he says, "The archive room would be better. No one ever goes down there."

Connor's head tilts to the side, LED spinning yellow. "Hmm. True. But I like the idea of the desk better, Lieutenant."

Oh Christ, why the hell did he think he could play chicken with an android. With _Connor_?

"I will add that to my list of tasks to be--"

Clearly, the only thing left is pillow warfare.

Hank smacks Connor in the face with his pillow, then bats at his stupid perfect body with it. Connor flashes an even brighter yellow for a split second before he starts laughing, playfully allowing Hank to push him over. He (lightly) presses his pillow over the android's stupid perfect face since he doesn't need to breathe anyway.

"Erotic asphyxiation, Lieutenant?" Connor's voice barely even sounds muffled by the pillow.

Hank smacks him a few more times. "Don't. Be. A. Brat."

Connor giggles, turning a weaponized grin on him that's so pretty Hank gets his pillow taken away from him in one easy move. It's the dimples, and they should be illegal.

"I will enter stasis for eight hours in one minute," Connor announces. "I hope you also rest well, Hank. Goodnight."

He rolls over and pretends to sleep. Hank scoots down on the bed and pulls his doofus closer, leaning over his shoulder to peek at the way Connor has his eyes shut tight even as he still can't stop smiling.

"Yeah, goodnight to you too, asshole," Hank grumbles.

Connor hums, wiggling backwards to make sure their bodies press together in an unbroken line. Hank kisses the mole on the back of his neck, just below his hairline. Their hands automatically find each other and wind together, synthetic skin retreating until Hank can fall asleep brushing his thumb over smooth plastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a few ideas for the next several chapters and where I want to take this fic--namely, Hank and Connor's first time--but I'm all caught up on pre-written chapters, so they'll be written in real time from now on. hopefully, that won't slow down the update schedule any and I'll still post once a week, preferably on or near Fridays since that's what works with my work schedule. just giving y'all a heads up though!
> 
> in other news: I got a new laptop, and it has a keyboard where the letters and numbers can be programmed to light up different colors so I set it to light up in a rainbow wave and it looks gay AS FUCK
> 
> gay hacker voice: I'm out
> 
> (PS: and please go check out the new Reed900 fic I'm starting if you ship that too. they get real ~character development~ this time, and THEN they hate fuck in the back alley of a bar. that's growth)


	19. Why You're Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank goes to his first therapy session and there's A LOT to unpack. you might wanna grab some tissues for this one because I tried to write this at work and almost cried three separate times, and I *never* cry in public

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warnings** for all the shit in Hank's therapy session: suicidal thoughts and idealization of course, but also some heavy fucking survivor's guilt. Cole's death and funeral also get discussed

"Do you want to tell me why you're here, Hank?"

Hank swallows down a dozen sarcastic answers as he fruitlessly tries to adjust his fat ass to sit comfortably in the stiff chair. You'd think a therapist would go out of their way to acquire comfortable furniture. Loosen people up a bit, get them to relax. The irony of it all is that Jeff has some comfy fucking chairs in his office. Maybe that's why he never paid attention to all the "you're an embarrassing fuck up and I WILL fire you" lectures.

The first civil response he can come up with is that he's here for Connor. To make his boyfriend happy and not fuck things up. But that's not all he'd been thinking of during his little kitchen-revelation. Sumo had been a pretty big factor too, and hell, at this point even his job is ... important? He doesn't have time to die, he's got cases to close.

Christ, you'd think he was a fucking lieutenant or something.

"Look, can we just stop with all this therapist shit?" Hank asks.

Dr. Giuliano raises her eyebrow at him. "I am a therapist, Hank."

"Stop using my first name to make me feel like you care."

Dr. Giuliano fixes him with a polite stare and doesn't say anything else.

"And don't try to get me to talk by leveraging silence," he growls. "I do this shit all day, I know how it works."

"This isn't an interrogation ... Hank."

That time was definitely on purpose, but he can work with a woman trying to piss him off. Better than that fake polite bullshit. Dr. Giuliano even drops her perfect posture to relax back into her chair--as much as she can in these goddamn torture devices--and he spends half a minute squirming around in his too.

"Where'd you get these things?" he asks. "Quantico?"

Dr. Giuliano gives him what might be a real smile this time. "It's so people don't fall asleep. Some people, and I'm sure you can't imagine who, don't want to talk. They just sit there in silence for the full hour."

"Wow, who would do that?" Hank mutters.

"I have no idea. So anyway, on an unrelated note, why are you here today, Hank?"

He sighs and tries to look like an adult, not a sullen teenager. "To not die, I guess?"

"That's good," Dr. Giuliano says. "I'm here because I have bpd and I got tired of being treated by smug neurotypicals who think people like me are _just so fascinating_."

Hank blinks, then grins. "Hell yeah. Fuck the system from the inside."

"Is that why you become a cop?" she asks.

"Nah," Hank says with a snort. "I was just some hotshot fucko who wanted to look cool and carry a gun. Think maybe that's why Connor's doing it though, so at least one of us is getting it right."

"Work going all right with you two?"

He knows it's still a Therapist Question. She's just pumping him for information, same as any suspect handcuffed to the desk. The casual tone makes it easier to pretend though, like they're just two buddies who haven't seen each other for a while, having a drink.

Probably not a good idea to ask if he can bring a six pack next time.

"Yeah, s'fine." He shrugs. "Connor's still officially listed as a _consultant_ though in all the paperwork, which is bullshit. If anyone in that place should be a detective, it's him."

"He says he's happy just to be making progress," Dr. Giuliano points out.

Hank grunts.

"But it's good he has a partner willing to fight for him."

Hank grunts again, this time with the fun addition of a blush. Maybe he could weedle her down to a compromise of one beer?

"Have you talked to the android he considers his brother?" she asks.

That's a nice, if weird, change of subject, so he answers before she starts digging in on him again. "Uh, yeah. Couple of times, I guess. Just about work stuff though. And I thought Connor was an asshole, Jesus. But hey, if there was ever a match made in hell for Reed's next partner ..."

Hank trails off with a grin. Cyberlife actually went and made a bigger, meaner asshole that seems specifically designed to put Reed in his place. Word around the office is, big-Connor actually strangled him for a hot second in the first floor men's room before his _don't murder humans_ protocol kicked in.

"And has Connor met any of your family?" Dr. Guiliano asks.

That kills his good mood pretty much instantly. Thank God his parents are dead. Not that they'd been bad--well, not the kind of bad he's seen, working as a cop. Just ... not particularly good. Not the kind of people he ever would have brought any boyfriend home to, much less an android one. And without any siblings, and after Cole died, and after he stopped returning anyone's calls for three years ...

"Like who?" Hank sneers just thinking about it. "Julie? Hell no."

The only other family member he even knows for certain is still alive is--shit, she'd better still be alive. Hell, Benny's probably the only reason he and Sumo are still alive. Dog food and groceries just showed up for almost half a year afterward, when he'd been completely fucking useless, and he's pretty sure he never thanked her for it either.

Shit. He doesn't even remember her number.

"I'm here because I don't want to kill myself," he says before the doctor can pry more into that.

Thankfully, she lets it go, but that doesn't stop her from prying into the new subject. "Did you want to before?"

Before. Like BC. Before Connor.

"Yeah," Hank admits.

"Do you have a plan now?"

Technically, he still has his gun. It just goes into his bedroom safe each evening when he gets home. Not under Connor's watchful eye or anything, although he's sure the android takes note of it, and he still has the combination. He could take it back out. Not put it away in the first place.

Breathing out "No." is harder than admitting he's suicidal in the first place.

Because he doesn't anymore. At least, not like he did before, when killing himself was something He Would Do and the only variable was when he'd finally get the fucking guts to do it.

But he doesn't know where the hell that leaves him now.

"I just--" He blows out a frustrated huff. "Don't wanna be alive sometimes. Is all."

"Does that feel different?"

Does it? Fuck, feeling things is--he'd gone all numb over the last few years. Now there's so many different feelings all trying to claw their way back into him at once, and he's forgotten what to even do with them. Where to put them all. It isn't fair. He's supposed to be nice and dead by now, not struggling to put the pieces of his stupid fucking life back together again.

"I don't ... think about the gun. As much," he forces out. "I just didn't expect to still be doing this shit, and it still hurts, and I want to see Cole again, goddammit."

Hank breathes heavily and swipes a hand across his face, leaving it there to cover up the tears threatening to leak out.

"It wouldn't hurt if I weren't alive. And I can be not-alive by being dead. So I guess I still want to be dead sometimes."

"Do you still want to be alive sometimes?"

"It's not right!" he bursts out. "I shouldn't be alive when he's dead. I'm his--his _parent_ , goddammit! I shouldn't live longer than my own--my--"

The tears aren't going away now, and he still can't hear ambulances without drinking later. They'd buried him in a suit, and Hank got way too drunk at the funeral trying to stop himself from ripping it off because that mannequin-thing inside there wasn't his son, wasn't his Little Buddy who couldn't keep his damn clothes on for a trip to Walmart and back, who never wanted to wear anything except that stupid dinosaur onesie he could barely fit in anymore.

"If you believe Cole is in an afterlife you can visit one day," Dr. Giuliano keeps talking from somewhere very far away. "I don't think he'll be able to conceptualize the difference between you showing up now and you showing up twenty years later. I think the only difference is whether you get there happy or sad, and that he'll be a lot happier to see you if you show up happy too, with lots of new stories to tell him about Sumo and Connor."

Hank breaks down then, in a way one adult should really never do in front of another adult.

When he can finally breathe without shuddering again, his throat feels raw and his whole face hurts. There's tears and drool and snot all dripping down together into one big mess in his beard, and he's too fucking exhausted to care. Kleenex appear in his field of vision, and he takes the whole box without looking at his therapist.

"Is it all right if I say one more thing?" Dr. Guiliano asks.

"Yeah." Hank burbles out a laugh. "Christ. Hit me."

"You've made a lot of progress between having a solid plan and the generalized suicidal thoughts you have now," she says. "You're moving forward, and you should be proud of that. Connor is very proud of you. I often have to remind him he's here to talk about himself, not you."

Hank sniffles into another Kleenex as the praise passes in one ear, waves for a second at his brain, and then yeets itself out the other. The most he can focus on from all that is Connor. He's going to go home, and Connor will be there, and since his boyfriend is basically just a needy octopus, they're probably going to snuggle. Which is still weird as fuck for his brain to think about, that he has anyone waiting at home other than Sumo, but right now he's too tired to hate himself.

"So what's the next step?" he finally asks.

Dr. Guiliano looks surprised at the question, and he straightens himself up a little.

"Listen, I want--" He pushes aside all the grimdark edgelord thoughts about being dead. "I want to do more stuff with Connor, and be a better owner for Sumo, and--and shit, show up his asshole brother because I _know_ that fucker is judging me every time he scans me."

Dr. Guiliano practically beams at him. "Excellent. Spite is a very powerful motivating factor, I can personally assure you that."

"Yeah." Hank chuckles past the last of his tears. "And uh, I don't wanna do anything stupid, just 'cause I--I get to feeling like that again for ten minutes and then boom. No more tart."

Dr. Guiliano cocks her head to the side, eerily reminiscent of Connor. Maybe it's just something smart people do. "Tart?"

"I was going to make him a raspberry tart," he explains. "But uh, it wasn't a good time to go to the grocery store. I'd still like to ... make that happen."

"That's a great idea!" She gives him another enthusiastic smile. "I think it would be really good for you to pursue interests other than Connor."

Hank shifts in his seat. "Well. I was planning on making it with him."

"Other doesn't mean without," Dr. Guiliano tells him. "Just that you start figuring out your own interests again. Things that are your idea or hobbies you used to enjoy. He can still do them with you, but they should be things for you."

"I used to like baking," he mumbles, like he's admitting a dirty secret.

"Then I think making a raspberry tart is a great goal to work on until next time," she says. "Now, you still have forty minutes left in your session."

Hank groans. "What if, I go to the grocery store. I buy the ingredients. I go home. And we don't talk."

Dr. Guiliano nods. "Very well. But I'm letting you know now, Connor will be a lot happier about the surprise if you only come back with baking ingredients."

"Yeah, we don't need any other groceries, so ..."

"No beer, Hank."

He looks away like the guilty alcoholic he is. He's cut down. Mostly due to Connor slowly weaning him off by helpfully fixing his suppers and _helpfully_ providing non-alcoholic beverages with them. Giving him big, sad eyes when he tries to go back to the fridge for more than one beer while watching TV. Following him to Jimmy's so he feels one android peer pressured not to order too much of anything hard.

Hell, at this point he could probably quit without getting the shakes too bad from it, if not for, y'know. Being an alcoholic.

"... no beer."

"Then be sure to check in with the receptionist on your way out, and have a nice day, Hank."

***

Hank doesn't buy beer. He doesn't even let himself go into that aisle. He buys flour and fresh raspberries, plus some white chocolate wafers in case he ever feels like melting them down and doing something fancy. He doesn't know what, but Connor and melted chocolate seem like a good idea, whatever they do.

He tells himself there's already a six pack at home and doesn't buy beer. His inner dumbass whines that a six pack only has _six_ beers and there are seven days in a week. That's not even one per day, which means he'll either have to haul himself back to a store to get more or skip a day.

Christ, he feels a headache just thinking about it. Connor will be there though.

In fact, Connor is at home right now. Home alone with his own personal betterment assignment of figuring out what he likes. Fuck, Hank would love to head home right now, get back early and surprise him, but he'd already given that big dumb speech about how Connor needs to learn for himself without Hank influencing.

So he mopes himself around the grocery store a little while longer to make up for getting out of therapy early and ends up buying Connor a pair of blue boxers with little pink hearts and grey robots on them. And while he's at it, he picks up a pack of condoms too, because god knows he hasn't bothered with that shit in the last three years so there's none at the house. Maybe they'll help settle Connor's constant need for cleanliness--if they ever stop dancing around each other and actually get to fucking.

(Which is entirely Hank's fault, because he's pretty sure Connor would have already worked them halfway through the Karma Sutra by now if it was up to him.)

Hank's in such a daze thinking about that, when he gets to the front of the line and starts loading his meager cart on the belt, he looks up to see an actual person at the other side of the counter. Shit. Would it be rude to switch to a self-checkout now? Wait, she's still got her LED, so if he leaves now, she'll definitely think he's just a racist bastard.

So he sets down the fresh raspberries, white chocolate wafers, and tries to hide the condoms underneath the boxers. Fuuuck.

"Oh, is it your anniversary?" the android woman asks.

Hank shakes his head. She picks up the boxers, LED spinning yellow a second when she notices the hearts and robots. The box of condoms just sits there, out in the open. The android woman folds the boxers and scans the box next with a quick spin of her LED, then tries to subtly eye him up to see if he really needs the XL size while she weighs the raspberries. A flicker of his old pride starts to flare up, but there's only one android he wants checking him out at the moment and--

Ughhhh. Checking him out. Fuck, Connor would love that pun so much. Not even his own brain is safe.

"Have I seen you on the news before?" she asks.

Hank freezes, then mutters, "Nope."

Not during the televised part of the revolution, him clapping Connor on the back and looking at the other man with the dumbest fucking heart eyes. Not during Jeffrey's press releases, stiff and uncomfortable in dress blues he hadn't worn in years and barely fit in anymore. Not from reporters circling like vultures outside the DPD to get snaps of Connor, mostly just getting closeups of Hank's middle finger.

Nope, not at all.

From the way her LED switches to a hard yellow, she doesn't buy it.

"I hope you have a _great_ evening, sir," she says, throwing him a wink at the end.

Hank power walks out of the store like an old lady trying to get her steps in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be love and cuddles with Connor, plus a little bit more on his own personal fantasies about Hank while he practices masturbating :)
> 
> \--
> 
> Nines, watching Hank slowly recover but he's still not showering every day and his beard's a mess and he sneaks fast food when Connor's busy: Disgusting.
> 
> Connor: I have 136 pieces of evidence that your human is actually three raccoons in a leather jacket and they all have rabies
> 
> Nines: you don't have all the facts
> 
> Connor: which are???
> 
> Nines: I tolerate him


	20. Good Boy(?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor tries to masturbate to completion for the first time, but it ends badly when he starts thinking bad things about himself. Luckily, Hank gets home soon and confesses his love in the middle of nonsense babble like the bisexual disaster we all know he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late!! I'm moving to a fancy downtown apartment in a month, so I've been busy preparing for that ^^
> 
> just as a heads up, Connor thinks about sucking Hank off at work, and he's not so concerned with clear and enthusiastic consent (since it's his own fantasy), so Hank is a little Dom-y for once, lol
> 
> also! the way Connor thinks about sex and specifically how he gets aroused enough to masturbate is meant to be a reflection of my headcanon that he's demisexual, and also a mild reflection of my own experiences as an asexual person. jacking it to random thoughts, "hot" people, or a vague scenario just doesn't work. luckily, Connor has a cock, which I think might be a little easier to work with (yall ever try rubbing a dry pussy? it's not fun, but it doesn't get wet until it's fun and it's not fun until it gets wet sooOOO!!) and is sexually attracted to This One Specific Person He Loves, so he has a better time of it

Connor makes himself comfortable in Hank's bed--in their bed. Hank will be gone for an estimated hour and forty five minutes, to account for not only the hour-long therapy session, filling out the paperwork, the drive there and back, as well as any unexpected delays.

That leaves Connor with at least an hour and a half of alone time.

It isn't quite as depressing as he thought it'd be. For one thing, Hank's scent lingers on the sheets. Most of the videos he's studied shows the subject laying on their back, but this is for him, so he flips over on his stomach to smoosh his face into Hank's pillow and inhale greedily.

Hank also knows what Connor will be doing while he's gone. Connor smiles into the pillow and shivers a little bit. He had considered holding out for the full hour and a half, but there's really no point since he doesn't have a refractory period. And the thought of Hank returning home to find him already _fucked out_ , as the human called it, is a thought that turns out to be very conducive to his current mission.

[Learn to Masturbate]

Hank had suggested he take it slow, so Connor simply enjoys the feeling of no pressing matters, all cases wrapped up at work, the soft sheets against his bare skin. Sumo has been appeased with a new chew toy that hides frozen yogurt inside, so hopefully that will keep him busy for the duration of Connor's "alone time."

Connor trails his hand down his side and to his hip. He has less access to his body in this position, aside from his hole, but that wouldn't be taking it slow. He flips back over onto his side with a regretful side. Maybe he can finish like that.

Maybe that's how he should greet Hank.

Connor smirks and adds that to his task list. For now, he double-checks that he has all of the necessary supplies close at hand on the bed. Dildo, vibrator, and lube for the basics, Kleenex and a water bottle for the clean up.

The dildo is an old toy Hank dug out of a _particularly_ interesting cardboard box banished to the garage. Its contents have all been brought inside now, stored in a much more structurally sound box inside the closet.

Slow. Connor closes his eyes and regulates his unnecessary breathing. He knows exactly what is inside the box, and the internet has been so very helpful in explaining how it's all used. But he's going to take it _slow_.

He's going to be a good boy for Hank. Maybe he'll reward him when he gets back. Connor will have completed his task of finding out what he likes by then, so it should at least be a possibility.

Connor starts with his nipples as a compromise for going slow. His hole and cock attachment can both self-lubricate, so there's really no _need_ for foreplay.

But he's seen the hungry way Hank's eyes follow his chest whenever one of the human's extra-large shirts "accidentally" falls over his shoulder, giving peeks at one of his nipples. Clearly, he should determine how they respond to stimulus.

He rubs a thumb around the left one, still petting over himself with his free hand. The nipple starts to harden in response. In a few seconds, it has pebbled completely.

... great.

Connor frowns at the ceiling. This won't do. Hank is adamant about him truly enjoying sex. If his body won't respond appropriately, he might not have sex with him at all out of some misguided chivalry.

The last time he experimented, thinking of Hank had been instrumental to achieving the desired results. Perhaps his system requires more than just physical sensation alone?

Connor runs a preconstruction of crawling beneath the lieutenant's desk. He's scanned the interior space, and he knows his own measurements down to the millimeter. There is adequate room underneath for him to fit, if he kneels and bends forward slightly. His back will not ache from the position, and it will encourage him to rest his head against Hank's thigh anyway.

Hank will grumble and pretend to complain at first, of course. His human is overly cautious about asserting his authority, but Connor is certain he can convince him.

Hands rubbing over his thighs, cheek resting on top of one, hot breath puffing over his groin.

"Christ, put that back-talking mouth to work if you're gonna be down there," Hank says in his fantasy.

Connor shifts his legs apart a little bit on the bed as he pictures spreading Hank's. Pushing his face into the space in between, where the human's scent would be the strongest, even more than on his pillow.

"Don't just sniff it," Hank chastises. "Get to work."

Connor drags his zipper down with his teeth, nosing the fabric aside to expose the wet patch on Hank's boxers and the thick cock responsible for it resting beneath.

(His hand creeps back up to his chest to try rubbing circles around his nipple again. It feels much better now.)

"Hurry up. You don't want to get caught, do you?"

(Maybe? No. Not right now, wants to think about making Hank feel good instead.)

Hank's left hand pets through his hair before taking a firm grip of it to keep his head still while his right hand slips into the slit in his boxers to palm his cock. Connor lets out a soft whine for it but Hank doesn't give it to him yet because--

(Connor drags his hand away from his nipples to grab the dildo instead--)

"Show me your position, sweetheart."

(Connor's too eager to move from the bed into a proper kneeling position to fit the scene and he certainly can't put his arms behind his back right now but) Connor takes his hands off Hank's thighs and puts his hands behind his back, gripping his wrists and spreading his thighs apart (he spreads them on Hank's bed too, making more room for his free hand between his legs) until he's kneeling like a Good Boy and Hank takes his dick out (and Connor lifts the dildo to his lips) and rubs the head along his bottom lip to test if he really can behave and--

He can't.

Connor shoves the dick inside his mouth as deep as it can go, no need to worry about a gag reflex. Hank would have to muffle a growl, and he'd probably be in trouble for it, but he'd also make it up to his lieutenant.

The dildo doesn't taste like anything though, and it doesn't smell like Hank either. Connor starts up a rhythm stroking his cock with his other hand to make up for how much better it would be if he could really have Hank's dick right where he wants it.

Hank would be thicker though. Not quite as long, but he'd fill out Connor's mouth better--he swallows compulsively around the dildo at the thought, hips bucking up in his fist. He should be moving the dildo to fit with his fantasy, but he's lost his train of thought, and he can't bear to actually take the toy out, even for a second. It feels so good already, just pressing his tongue down, filling his throat--

If it were really Hank, he could take a sample too. Have Hank fill up his mouth and his software and his heart and--fuck.

Connor tries to shove the dildo deeper because it's just not enough. It's good, it's so so good, but it could be _better_. It would be so much better if it were warm and musky and real, not this stupid plastic. He wants more than that, better than--

Better than plastic.

And yet he really thinks Hank will want him? Maybe right now, but always, when there are so many other options, _real_ people with _rea_ l skin and hearts and brains instead of software and plastic.

Isn't it pathetic that he's plastic trying to pleasure himself with more plastic?

Connor isn't sure if the voice inside his head is Amanda or Nines or Reed, or maybe even his own. He doesn't know when he throws the dildo against the wall either, just that he's suddenly off the bed and desperately tugging his clothes back on so he doesn't have to look at himself anymore.

\--

Hank expects to come home to find Connor relaxing in the afterglow, but instead he walks in to see him shaking on the couch with his face buried in Sumo's fur. The one bag of groceries gets dropped to the floor as Hank rushes over and kneels down beside them. He can't see Connor's face, but the bright red LED is a dead giveaway.

"Hey, hey, hey." He doesn't touch, just in case, but he hovers as close as possible. "What's wrong?"

"Had bad thoughts," Connor mumbles without lifting his head.

"Awoo ..."

Sumo turns just enough to lick Hank's face, then snuffles the red light at Connor's forehead and whines again. He's probably smart enough to know that color means nothing good, the same way he can always tell when Hank's thoughts start getting bad.

"You wanna talk about 'em?"

Connor finally straightens up, although he keeps his face turned away. He reaches for Hank past Sumo though, and that's invitation enough for Hank to get up there with them. It takes some shuffling, but Sumo actually acts gracious about letting someone else get cuddles for once, and Hank ends up with Connor in his lap.

A crying Connor.

"Am I--?" Connor gasps out, but then another shudder wracks his body and he buries his face in Hank's chest.

Hank wraps his arms around him tight and starts babbling nonsense back at him, anything to make this wonderful man feel better.

"You're good, Con--shit, you're so good, the fucking best and I love you and it's OK, you're gonna be just fine, just breathe with me, all right?"

He makes exaggerated breathing noises until Connor starts breathing again too. He knows it isn't "necessary" for the android to breathe, but goddamn does it scare the shit out of him when Connor stops doing it. And he does start to unwind a little at a time in Hank's arms as they breathe together, until Hank can start whispering more nonsense encouragement without Connor freezing up again.

"You're here. You're right here with me and I--"

Wait, shit. Shit. Fuck! He's already said, didn't he? Well, can't take that back now.

"I uh, I love you, and you're a great person, so--fuck. Just--just don't worry about ... whatever."

A standing ovation for Hank "Can't Words Good" Anderson.

No, no, fuck. Dr. Giuliano said thinking like that is bad, and he can't be having bad thoughts while he's trying to help Connor deal with _his_ bad thoughts. So shut up, brain.

"I tried to use one of your toys," Connor mumbles into his shirt.

"Yeah?" Hank keeps rubbing his back. "You don't have to like everything you try, sweetheart."

"I um, I liked it."

"OK, well. There's no shame in--"

Connor sighs. "Hank."

But he can feel Connor's lips against his neck, twitching up in a small smile. When he looks down, the LED spins yellow now.

"Sorry, Con." He drops a quick kiss into his hair. "Just tell me what happened."

"I performed fellatio on your dildo," Connor says.

OK, _wel_ l. At least the android doesn't sound ashamed. Nope, not a single ounce of embarrassment in his voice, as matter-of-fact as always. So don't think about it. And do not pop the world's most inappropriate stiffy right now. Jesus Christ, he thought he could quit worrying about that once he hit fifty.

"Mmhmm."

"And I thought about how it would feel better if it was you."

Hank clears his throat. "Yeah?"

"If it was ..." Connor curls back in on himself. "A real cock. Not ... plastic."

"Hey now, don't--"

"Because I'm plastic," Connor talks right over him. "I am and so was the dildo, and if I didn't want--if it would be better with a real person--and just--plastic pleasuring pla--"

"Hey!" Hank grips his chin and forces him to look up. "You are a real person."

Connor doesn't make eye contact.

"You're a real person and a fucking good one too."

Connor shakes himself free from Hank's grip, but he slumps forward back into the hug instead of pulling away. Hank hugs him even tighter and starts rubbing his back again.

"I just felt so stupid," Connor whispers.

Hank's going to find a way to blame this on that asshole Reed. He just knows it's that dick's fault.

"You're not stupid. You're the smartest goddamn detective we've got, the best fucking person I've ever known, and if this has _anything_ to do with any of the shit Reed craps outta his mouth, I'm gonna kick his ass."

"Nines says he has permanent dibs on harming, maiming, and-or killing him."

Hank snorts, and Connor's LED gives a quick blue spin.

"Yeah, well, you message him that he either needs to put up or Reed needs to shut up."

Connor lets out another deep sigh. "The only time he's ever messaged me was to call me a bleach-drooler and then block me again."

"What?"

"I secrete a sterilizing fluid to cleanse my oral cavity after taking samples to prevent any possible cross-contamination."

"I know all of those words," Hank says. "And I do get what you're saying when you put them together like that. But please, I'm begging you, talk dumber or I'm gonna start yelling at you to speak English goddammit like this is a low budget buddy cop movie."

"A gay one," Connor says. "Oh wait. That's a porno."

Hank laughs. "I am way too old to be in one of those anymore, Con."

Connor immediately sits up straight. "You are very handsome, and you have the perfect bear body, and your age would be a draw to many potential viewers interested in hot older men who enjoy fucking pretty young twinks. Which would be me."

"Oookay, this is make Connor feel better time, not a compliment Hank ambush."

"I was made to ambush and to flatter."

"And drool bleach?"

Connor blushes and makes that prissy little face Hank loves so much. "It is not bleach. It's a sterilizing fluid designed by Elijah Kamski to--"

Hank rolls his eyes. "So you drool _fancy_ bleach and you have an asshole little brother. Welcome to being a person."

"I don't think most people secrete sterilizing fluids??"

"Yeah, most of 'em just have bad breath," Hank says. "And anyway, I can think of a lot of people who would be better off gargling a lil bit of bleach."

"Hank!"

"How many pedophiles are registered in Detroit?"

"I think we've strayed from the initial point of this conversation," Connor says.

And yeah, the point is to make Connor feel better, but the more they shoot the shit, the more often his LED circles blue instead of yellow. So they're right on track, as far as Hank's concerned.

"I think it went astray when you started talking about what a great porno we'd make," Hank says.

Connor tilts his head at the Analyzing Angle for half a second, then says, "We would be excellent. If you ever need discretionary income, I could arrange--"

"Jesus Christ, Connor!"

Connor's serious face breaks into a wide smile, and his LED finally settles firmly on blue. Sumo notices at once and squirms his way back between them, nearly pushing Connor off Hank's lap to get a piece of that prime real estate while simultaneously trying to lick the pretty blue light and both their faces.

"You've felt kind of OK for three seconds now Connor, so clearly you've recovered from your trauma enough for Sumo to be the favorite again," Hank informs him.

"Oh, is that right?" Connor scratches on either side of Sumo's collar and lets him lick his entire face. "Is that right??"

"BOOF!"

Connor somehow manages to rearrange them with his usual grace so that he sits next to Hank, tucked into his side, while Sumo lays across both their laps for maximum petting exposure. Satisfied with his return to his rightful throne, Sumo lets out a long, contented fart and falls asleep.

"Jesus fucking God," Hank gripes, trying to wave the fart stench toward the other end of the couch. "We should arrest him for war crimes."

"He's a good boy and I love him."

"You don't have to breathe!"

"I said what I said."

Hank leans back and lets Connor place small kisses along his neck and cheek until he forgets that he just got tear gassed.

"If what you said," Connor begins quietly. "Was just, part of comforting me, I understand."

Hank heaves a sigh. "I meant it. 'Course I fucking meant it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I just--I don't even know why I was so fucking scared to say it. But you deserved better than hearing it for the first time like this."

Connor pulls him down into a kiss. Hank tries to put all of his feelings into the kiss, since he's shit at putting them into words. He kisses Connor's forehead and LED too when they separate, but Connor gently cups his face to make eye contact again.

"Hank, you're a bisexual disaster and I love you," he says. "Also, those raspberries need to go in the refrigerator."

"How do you know there's raspberries?"

"I can see them?"

"From all the way over here?"

"I zoomed in."

Hank glares at him. "Sometimes I think you're shitting me about all the abilities you have. I'm gonna be the dumb old millennial who thinks you can do stupid shit, like secrete bleach and hack vending machines."

"I could hack the vending machine at work," Connor says. "Its user interface incorporates an app that allows customers to pay with their phones via bluetooth, and I suspect Nines has been routinely exploiting that to provide Reed with treats for good behavior."

Hank crosses his arms. "Why don't you give me treats for good behavior?"

"I bring you fresh pastries and cook all your meals," Connor reminds him. "And I will not allow you to subsist off of Doritos and Mars bars."

"Holy fuck, he lives like that?"

"And Nines lets him. Are we boyfriends?"

Hank blinks. "What?"

"We have both said I love you, and we live together, and we co-own a dog to--" Connor abruptly stops. "... do we--?"

"Yes, you own Sumo too," Hank says. "I think you walk and feed him more than I do at this point. I always knew you were only in this for him, anyway."

Connor gently takes his face in his hands once more and romantically murmurs, "Only seventy percent for him. Thirty percent of my love is still yours."

Hank wraps his arm around his waist and looks him up and down. "Yeah, what thirty percent?"

"Awoo-WOO!"

Sumo pushes at Hank with his paw, then tries to bully him off the couch with headbutts. This is his sacred sleeping spot, the one and only place in the entire house where he can nap, because it's not like he has a _perfectly good sixty-fucking-dollar_ dog bed on the floor or anything. Connor giggles and gives into Sumo's bullying first, standing up and offering Hank a hand up too. Hank uses their shared grip to pull Connor into a standing hug.

"Yes, you're my boyfriend, you fucking doofus."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus:
> 
> Connor: Hank ... why did you buy condoms?
> 
> Hank, blushing: they're for you, I swear
> 
> Connor: I cannot contract STDs??
> 
> Hank: yeah, but unless you secrete bleach in your asshole, you're gonna want something for clean up
> 
> Connor, very clearly thinking about how he could reroute his sterilizing fluid to his lubrication reservoir: hmmm.
> 
> Hank: this is why I'm suicidal
> 
> Connor: I *will* slap you again, lieutenant. And tell Dr. Giuliano that you are making Unapproved Jokes about--
> 
> Hank: and we're making a raspberry tart!! right now!!


	21. King Sumo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has finished his self-assigned morning chores (let Sumo go potty, refill his food and water bowls, start a pot of coffee for Hank) and is about to take a quick shower, but for once Hank actually gets out of bed on his own and beats him to it. Connor automatically turns back around to exit the bedroom and find more busywork to do, but then he stops.
> 
> Hank is his boyfriend.
> 
> Boyfriends shower together(?)
> 
> Connor decides to investigate this exciting new possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a bit early 1) because I'll be busy all day tomorrow and won't have time to do it then and 2) maybe an early surprise update will help make up for being late last week :)
> 
>  **sexy stuff in this chapter:** Hank and Connor showering together, what kind of counts as fingering??, frottage, more sexual fantasies!, Hank's thicc dick, Connor "no dick" Anderson, idk what to really call it but Connor puts on a show for Hank
> 
>  **possible triggers:** Hank has low self esteem and an unhealthy body image, but it isn't mentioned directly. there is a mention of past suicidal thoughts with the possibility of (a) previous attempt(s) implied, which happens after Sumo barks at the door to be let in too
> 
> OK, enjoy! <3

Connor has finished his self-assigned morning chores (let Sumo go potty, refill his food and water bowls, start a pot of coffee for Hank) and is about to take a quick shower, but for once Hank actually gets out of bed on his own and beats him to it. Connor automatically turns back around to exit the bedroom and find more busywork to do, but then he stops.

Hank is his boyfriend.

Boyfriends shower together(?)

Connor decides to investigate this exciting new possibility. Hank is already inside the shower with hot water steaming by the time he makes his decision and carefully eases into the bathroom. His human sometimes gets grumpy about having his bodily functions and/or nudity observed, so Connor ends up paused on the bathroom rug, not wanting to leave but unable to move forward.

"Con?" Hank's rough morning voice asks from behind the curtain. "You need something?"

"May I shower with you, lieutenant?"

The curtain draws back to reveal Hank's suspicious face. Connor tries to look as casual and unassuming as possible, but the use of Hank's title has probably already given him away. He tends to revert back to those formalities when he's nervous about a new situation--or when he wants something.

"You really wanna get in on all this?" Hank asks, already self-deprecating not fifteen minutes after waking up.

"I would like to take a shower, and showering together would be most efficient for water conservation." Connor runs the puppy eyes program he'll swear under threat of deactivation he doesn't have. "Boyfriends shower together, don't they, Hank?"

"All right, Christ."

Connor eagerly attempts to join him, but Hank's wet hand presses him back.

"Clothes off first, doofus."

"... right."

Connor strips off his pajamas in seven seconds and then enters on the other end of the shower. Hank keeps his arms crossed defensively over his chest and won't make eye contact with him. Although his list of [Hank Attributes - Good] exceeds five hundred thousand words, actions always speak louder for Hank, so Connor steps closer until he can gently pull Hank's arms away to make room for himself and a hug.

Hank tenses up beneath him but doesn't push him away. Connor counts that as a success and relaxes into the hug with his head tucked under Hank's chin. The human's thicker body hair lightly scratching against his chassis when he breathes feels amazing--and then Hank sighs and hugs him back.

"You really are something else," he mumbles.

"I am the android sent by Cyberlife. My name is Connor. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"All right you little _shit_. What're you gonna do now that you're in here, huh?"

Connor looks up and runs puppyeyes.exe for maximum effect at close range. "May I wash your hair?"

Hank rolls his own eyes. "Fine, fine."

[Mission Success] 

Connor slips behind Hank and urges him to step forward out of the water spray. There is only one bottle of shampoo, since Connor's hair is technically a variation of the technology that creates his synthskin and doesn't need to be washed. He has added a bottle of conditioner though, and he makes sure a bar of soap always stays in stock because otherwise Hank will wash himself with shampoo and claim it's basically the same thing.

To be fair, Hank does have quite a lot of hair on his body as well.

"What are you giggling at back there?" Hank grumbles, trying to look behind him.

"Nothing, lieutenant." Connor gently guides his head to face forward again. "Please hold still. Your cooperation is appreciated."

"You better not be running some sort of bathhouse program."

"I'm not." Connor rubs his hands together to ensure even distribution of the shampoo gel, then begins running them through Hank's hair. "I'm just having fun."

For all of his grumping, Hank relaxes into the impromptu head rub. "Yeah, well--hey! Did you just want to hog all the hot water?"

"Please hold still."

"Huh, is that what this is?"

"Please hold still. Your cooperation is appreciated."

"Fucking brat."

"I don't know why you would possibly think I might use my physical assets to charm a target solely for my own benefit, Lieutenant."

Hank snorts, then goes quiet for a moment before he retorts, "Sumo taught you that, didn't he?"

Connor really is having fun, savoring the chance to rub Hank's scalp and play with his hair all he wants, and he also really is just teasing with the automated responses. But his chassis still feels warmer at the offer of an explanation for his "charm" protocol that doesn't involve creepy seduction programming lurking in the back of his mind and how Cyberlife intended to use it (him).

"Yes," he says quietly. "Sumo taught me everything I know."

"Oh great. Now you're gonna start shitting behind the couch too."

Connor laughs, the Bad Thoughts retreating like clouds before sunlight. He has technically finished washing Hank's hair, since the shampoo has been worked in completely, but he indulges in a few more minutes anyway. For quite possibly the first time in his fifty-three-year life, Hank doesn't complain about something and lets him do it.

"All right," Connor finally admits he's done. "Let me rinse this out."

He knows from previous examinations of the shower that the head is detachable, which should allow him to extend it enough to reach Hank without them trying to shuffle around and trade places again. Unfortunately, he has never used it himself, and the water shuts off as soon as he detaches the shower head.

"It's the button at the top," Hank says.

Connor pushes the button. Nothing happens.

"Yeah, it sticks sometimes. Lemme--"

Connor clicks the button again just as Hank turns around. The water comes back on. Straight into Hank's face.

"Ack--augh, f-fuck!"

"Hank, are you--I'm so sorry!"

"Christ!" Hank hacks and snorts a few times. "Fucking aren't even wearing a cock and you still got it up my goddamn nose."

A very inappropriate giggle slips out.

"Oh, you think this is funny, huh?"

Hank grabs for the shower head to spray him back, and Connor willingly gives it to him. He pauses, staring at Connor with narrowed eyes as he holds the shower head in his hand.

"I am not going to 'tussle' with you in the shower, Hank," Connor says. "It is very slippery in here, and you could fall."

Hank's face somehow finds a way to flush even redder than the steam already made it. "You think you can take me, hotshot?"

Connor leers over his body and smirks. "I think I could take you very well, Lieu--"

Hank sprays him in the crotch. "Bad Connor. Down. Down!"

"I don't have any genitals attached."

This time it's Hank who takes his time looking over Connor's body. "Yeah? So where's your horniness coming from then?"

"Well, I love you."

Hank blinks. "What--so? You??"

"My heart is Big Horny for you," Connor solemnly intones.

Hank sprays him in the face this time. Connor laughs and easily takes the shower head back from him. Hank allows himself to be pushed around to face the wall again, and then Connor gets to work rinsing the shampoo from his hair. He cups his free hand over Hank's forehead to make sure no soapy water gets in his face.

"You don't gotta do that, y'know."

His human is displaying defensive posturing again. Connor drops a few kisses along his shoulder and up his neck in retaliation.

"I will not allow any shampoo to get in your eyes, Hank. That would hurt."

"You--fuckin'--"

Hank's response trails off into nonsensical grumble noises, but then he grabs Connor's hand away from his forehead and presses a kiss to his wrist instead. He kisses over his palm and fingertips and the backs of his knuckles and--Connor drapes himself over his back and shivers. He has more sensors in his mouth than his hands, but they're still much more sensitive than a human's.

"Hank ..."

"Fair play, sweetheart."

"We don't have time for play. We're already running late."

"You're the one who wanted to shower with me."

Connor bites the bottom of his earlobe and tugs it for a lack of an actual argument. Hank shudders, and he uses the moment of distraction to pull his hand away from the soft mouth and coarse beard--no, Bad Connor. Again.

"Rinsed," he announces.

Hank turns around and reaches for the soap, but Connor stops him.

"You need conditioner."

He ignores the way Hank rolls his eyes and bullies him into turning back around again. The shower head gets firmly reattached while Hank shivers now that he's out from under the hot water once more. Connor makes up for it by draping himself over his back again, reaching over his shoulder to grab his towel.

"The fuck're you doing?"

"Conditioner moisturizes," Connor explains. "It won't set in properly if your hair is already full of moisture."

He tosses the towel over Hank's head and begins vigorously scrubbing it over his wet hair before he can start protesting. Hank protests anyway, but the towel muffles it some. When Connor is done, his hair sticks out in all directions and his face is Not Happy.

"There!" Connor gives him a cheerful smile. "I will now apply the conditioner. Please hold still."

"I'm gonna hold you still."

Connor ignores the threat. Hank is just grumpy, not angry, and he thinks his human is quite cute when he's grumpy. He works the conditioner in starting at the root, then slicking it down the strands of hair. When he's done, he stands on his tiptoes to lean over Hank's shoulder a bit and press a kiss to his beard.

"Done."

"Great. May I _please_ get back under the water now?"

"Sorry Hank, but I cannot allow that."

"Connor!"

He grins and steps back under the spray himself. "The conditioner needs time to set in. Your hair will be much softer after this."

"My dick is gonna be soft for a week if you keep this shit up," Hank threatens. "I swear to god, Connor."

He takes this threat much more seriously, surreptitiously eyeing between the lieutenant's legs. He'd been hoping Hank would help him out during his next masturbation attempt, and maybe even allow him to return the favor. Perhaps even lend a helping mouth, so to speak.

"I'm sure there's something I can do to make the wait worth your while, Lieutenant," Connor murmurs.

He soaps up the loofah he bought that Hank insisted he didn't need but has used consistently ever since. The soft blue bundle makes itself particularly useful now as Connor works down from his neck and across his collarbones, allowing soapy water to run down over his nipples. He cocks his hips slightly to the side, and for all his threats, Hank's eyes and dick both don't seem to mind he's only wearing the smooth blank pubic plate at the moment.

"Is this satisfactory?"

Hank opens his mouth, then shuts it with a huff and nods. Connor smirks back at him and swipes the loofah down his chest, down to his belly, down to his--he detours right before reaching his mound to rub over the top of his thigh instead. Hank's eyes darken and his dick twitches beneath his stomach.

Androids do not have peripheral vision, as everything within their range of vision is recorded exactly the same as what's exactly in front of them.

Connor exploits this feature mercilessly as he partitions off a portion of his vision to stay zoomed in on Hank's cock as he turns to the side and steps one foot up onto the edge of the tub. He makes certain the arch of his back is perfectly angled to both push out his ass and encourage water to run down his chest and drip off his nipples.

Hank's dick approves. Connor's breathing module picks up.

He's never been allowed to see it like this. Only glimpses of nonsexualized nudity, where the lieutenant's phallus was simply another feature, not the focus. But now Connor can observe the process of it achieving tumescence, and he archives the recording reverently as he pretends to concentrate on soaping up his leg.

In fact, he is so busy concentrating on one specific part of Hank's body, he doesn't realize it immediately when the whole thing moves forward until Hank has already grabbed him. Unable to see the forest through the ... tree.

"H-Hank!"

"Shhh." Hank kisses the side of his neck, pulling them flush together. "I'm helping."

Connor can feel his stomach press into his lower back, filling up the space perfectly, while his hard dick brushes against where his ass meets the backs of his thighs. His arms wrap around his chest, and his beard scratches against his neck, and--it's all so perfect.

"Hank, _please_!"

"I got you, sweetheart," Hank murmurs, calm and steady in contrast to Connor's sudden, shaking need.

Hank takes the loofah from him, one thick leg nudging against the back of Connor's own leg so he can't take it back down off the ledge. The position leaves his hole open to the air--no detaching _that_. Hank runs the loofah straight down his chest, avoiding both hardened nipples, and taking the same detour to his thighs that Connor did earlier.

"I already washed there," Connor says through gritted teeth.

Hank has the nerve to laugh at that, chuckling lowly into his ear as he washes in between his thighs, switching from one to the other but never giving Connor what he wants. Connor grips his arms and lets his head thunk backwards against his shoulder with a groan.

"Hank, Hank, please," he babbles. "Hank, Lieutenant, plea--"

Hank drops the loofah entirely and slides three slick fingers between his legs to rub against his mound. Connor's core clenches, his body instinctively trying to curl up around the spike the pleasure. His foot slips off the ledge unintentionally, but Hank keeps him upright when he would have fell, practically holding him up at this point. That thought only sends more heat surging through him.

"Oh ff ... fff ... fuck!"

"That's it, baby." Hank's fingers curl and swipe against him. "My sweet boy."

"Hank!"

"That feel good?"

Connor hesitates a second too long before nodding, and Hank definitely notices.

"Hey. Connor, hey, you can tell me," he says, voice entirely too serious.

"S'good," Connor immediately reassures him. "I like it, it's good. I just, down _there_ doesn't have any more sensors than any other place on my body. But ... I know, that's where my cock would be, and, and it looks--"

He makes the mistake of looking down at Hank's big hand between his thighs and his vocal unit glitches out for a second.

"Please ... please, Hank?" he begs as soon as he's able.

Hank squeezes his pinkie in with the rest of his fingers, then scratches his nails up from Connor's taint across his mound and all the way to his navel. Connor's vision follows the fate of his vocal unit as static blares both in front of his eyes and out of his mouth.

It's possible he's still trying to beg, but he can't hear anything except Hank's low groan as his dick slips in between his thighs. Connor instinctively tries to squeeze them shut to feel the thick flesh between them, but Hank's leg is still in the way.

"Gonna finish this too fast, sweetheart," Hank growls in his ear.

Connor absolutely does not care. In fact, he very much does want this finished _right now_. 

"How?" Hank asks, so he must still be babbling out at least some of his thoughts. "What do you want, sweet boy?"

Anything. _Everything_.

Connor runs what seems like hundreds of preconstructions--Hank bending him over, braced against the wall to finally take his cock between his legs or in his ass; dropping to his knees and licking until he shudders his way to orgasm, letting Hank use his mouth afterwards; or just this, the two of them pressed together, wet and hot and desperate until this heat coiling inside him until he finally snaps.

But before he can get his million dollar processor in order enough to form a reply, there's a loud thump at the door followed by several insistent barks. Sumo must have finished his breakfast, but he's not usually so pushy about his walk afterwards.

"Shit." Hank takes a step back. "He uh ... he worries when I." He stops and clears his throat. "Spend too much time in the bathroom."

That admission cools Connor off like the water has suddenly ran ice cold. He deletes several unwanted preconstructions about the many various ways humans typically commit suicide in bathrooms.

"Sorry, Con. I can, uh ..."

Connor turns around gives Hank a quick kiss on the cheek. "It's OK. Don't worry about it. Just stay here."

Hank's scowling face shows he clearly is worrying about it, so Connor pecks quick kisses to his lips until the expression eases a little and Sumo lets out another bark. Only then does he step out of the shower, not bothering to grab a towel since the cold air doesn't bother him any. He opens the door and Sumo immediately barrels past him to put his paws up on the tub's edge and bark at Hank past the shower curtain.

"You didn't have to let him in!" Despite his tone, Hank opens the curtain, one hand protectively covering his erection. "Yeah, I'm fine. S'okay Sumo, I'm fine."

"He doesn't know what that is, Hank," Connor points out.

Hank scowls at him, still trying to hide his phallus from the dog. "That just makes it worse!"

Connor starts to roll his eyes, but thanks to superior android "No Peripherals" vision, he catches it when Sumo shifts his weight on his hind legs in preparation of jumping into the shower. He lunges forward and catches the dog by the collar just in time.

"No!" he scolds. "You say hi to Hank from here."

Sumo whines, and Hank kneels down to get on eye level with him even though that really isn't good for his knees in the hard tub.

"I'm fine, you big dummy." He scratches on both sides of Sumo's face, digging down deep under his collar just the way he likes it. "Big dummy, yeah, that's you."

Sumo licks all over his face, which Hank seems to allow because he can simply wash the dog drool off in a moment anyway. Mission: Lick Hank's Face accomplished, Sumo drops back down to the floor and looks expectantly up at Connor. He boofs and tries to nudge him toward the door when Connor doesn't immediately and magically produce a leash for his walk.

"I have to get dressed first, Sumo," Connor tries to reason.

"AwooOOO!"

Connor looks back toward to Hank in the shower, and they share an understanding look. Maybe they can pick up where they left off later tonight if work isn't too bad. Connor sighs. Oh well. At least he's reasonably certain Hank won't be going anywhere at this point.

"Come on, your highness," he tells Sumo. "I'll get dressed, and then we'll go walk."

Sumo picks up on the last word, happily following Connor out of the bathroom.

"You know you're half the reason he's so spoiled," Hank calls after them.

Connor begins dressing from the clothes he'd already laid out for himself, Hank's outfit also laying on the bed too.

"But you started it," he calls back. "I only adapted to the oppressive system that was already in place."

"Oh, trust the android to start bringing up 'oppressive systems'!"

"This is why he has a disciplinary file," Connor says to Sumo as he buttons up his shirt. "Do you know what that is? A disciplinary file?"

"Yeah, I let him eat all the write ups I got."

Connor snickers even though that is very unprofessional and pulls on his jacket. Sumo barks again, impatient that The Leash has not yet made an appearance.

"I put on a pot of coffee that should be ready when you're done, so don't forget and let it burn."

"All right."

Connor finishes doing up his buttons and adjusting his cuff links, but the next thing he pulls out of the closet is a tie, not a leash.

"And I laid out an outfit for you. I even let you have one of your more hideous shirts."

"Fuck you, thanks."

Connor adjusts his tie to perfection, then sits down on the bed to put his shoes on. Sumo gives up and trots out of the bedroom to wait at the front door as a hint.

"You can have some of the leftover muffins I made yesterday for breakfast. Don't--"

"OK, OK, Jesus!"

"Don't skip it," Connor says sternly. "I will know. I love you."

"Fucking love you too. Asshole."

"BOOF! BOOF! **BOOF**!"

"Sumo! NO!"

Connor runs out of the bedroom to stop their dog from attempting to eat the door again. He foolishly opens it, since Sumo does know how to wait at the door even when it's open, and perhaps the demonstration that a walk _will_ be happening shortly will help placate the dog.

Instead, Sumo takes off down the street. Connor drops the leash he'd grabbed off the hook on the wall. His royal highness Sumo has spent far too long with Hank, so he doesn't realize that new owner Connor can and will run him down, then physically carry him home for a time out.

But he's about to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor, one full year after deviating and starting a revolution so he can experience love and feelings like a human: *still hasn't had one (1) single orgasm*
> 
> Connor: this is buLLSHIT


	22. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank finally sits Connor down in his lap to help with this "orgasm" thing the android's heard so much about ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm so this is late again and I'm very sorry! I went to a dog show and met a giant St. Bernard who's snout was as thick as my arm and he was a very good boy who didn't even drool on me, 100/10. I met lots of other dogs too that I'll be happy to tell you about if you comment that you want to know, but let's get to the actual good stuff since y'all waited so long
> 
> sex stuff in this chapter: LOTS of dirty talk, it's just like 80% dirty talk bc Clancy Brown's voice, y'know??? Connor is a very horny boy and gets his sub on; Hank insists on like, three different kinds of safewords / nonverbal tap outs, but then he gets into his dom groove. Connor doesn't wear his cock for this, but he still has a lubed and desperate asshole ready to go, sooo

Hank's spent the whole day frustrated as hell, because it's not like he can leave _his_ dick at home to concentrate on work. He knows Connor feels it too, but he doesn't want to pressure him into anything.

Which he should have known was dumb as hell, because he's barely slid into bed with the novel he's been working on before Connor crawls onto the bed too, wearing nothing but his favorite outfit of booty shorts and an over-sized DPD hoodie. Hank looks him over past the rims of his reading glasses. The collar of the hoodie "accidentally" hangs low enough to show off Connor's nipples.

"Are you ready for bed, Hank?" Connor asks.

"Think I could stay up a little later." Hank sets his book aside, Connor's eyes following his movements like the predator he is. "You wanna come sit in my lap, sweetheart?"

Connor crawls right on over before the endearment's even left his mouth. "I'm not picky about where I come tonight, Hank."

Hank fakes surprise as he pulls him closer. "You mean you aren't here for my company?"

Connor's eyes light up and Hank realizes the pun he's about to make a second before he actually does it. Hank quickly pushes at the android to turn around, then pulls him close back against his chest, sitting between his open legs.

"Good boys don't sully my ears with puns, Connor."

"I'm here for your COME-pany."

Hank lets his head thunk back against the headboard with a groan.

"Are you going to PUN-ish me?"

"I have a headache."

"Let me kiss it better."

"Nuh-uh." Hank lifts his head up so Connor can't twist around and reach his lips. "We're gonna have a little talk."

"Hank, are you sick?"

"I talk about my feelings all the time, asshole," he retorts. "Just this morning, I said I felt like kicking Reed's ass."

"That's the sexual frustration speaking," Connor says. "And I would much prefer you take that out on my ass. I designed it just for you."

Hank fights past the blush and deflections that rise up. "And that's what we're gonna talk about. What do you want to happen here, Con?"

"I told you." Connor tugs Hank's arms tighter around him and pouts up at him. "I'm really not picky, and I would very much like to have at least one orgasm this fiscal year, please."

Hank snorts. "All right, yeah. You want my help with that?"

"Yes, please."

"You know about the traffic light system?"

Connor taps his LED with a smile. "I believe I have one built in, Hank. Just substitute blue for green."

Hank kisses said blue light. "Mmhmm. You want a safeword too?"

"Hank," Connor sighs. "No and stop should suffice. Now may we please--"

Hank stops his squirming by pinning one arm across his chest and resting his free hand on the inside of his thigh. Not squeezing or spreading--not yet--but it still cuts off Connor's whining with a hitch in his breath.

"Behave," Hank warns him.

"Mmm."

"That wasn't an agreement."

"It wasn't."

"I'm not big into punishment, so if you don't behave, I just won't give you what you want," Hank says. "It's eight fifty-three, I'm old as shit, and I fucking promise you I can be asleep before it hits nine."

Connor glances at their bedside clock even though he probably has some sort of internal clock synced up to that one world clock all the others are supposed to run by. He stops squirming and moaning--not that Hank's opposed to it, they just have to get this shit out of the way first.

"Any limits?" he asks.

"No mean name-calling or daddy kink," Connor replies. "Are we going to use anything from your toy chest?"

"Nah, just you and me right now."

"And may I assume you won't piss on me?"

"Hey, don't jinx us. I'm gonna develop bladder incontinence and then you really will have to download an adult diaper kink."

"I will ignore all of that and mark your answer as no," Connor graciously allows. " _Now_ may we begin?"

Hank answers him with a kiss that quickly turns deep. They always do, ever since he taught Connor how to make out. "Taught" might be a generous use of that term too. It's more like he allows Connor to lick every square millimeter inside his mouth, like a blender installed a puppy tongue.

But it's Connor, and he's gone as hell for the boy, so Hank loves it all the same.

"Why don't you tell me what you've been thinking about," Hank suggests when they separate. "On the living room couch. In my bed. The shower."

"You," Connor gasps. "I was always--ah!"

Hank drags his hand down the inside of Connor's leg to the crook of his knee, then smooths back up all the bare skin on display until his fingers reach the hem of those tiny shorts. If that's barely an inch from Connor's crotch, then it's his own fault.

"Oh! I--please excuse me for one moment, Hank."

Connor scrambles up and starts to leave, but he freezes when Hank gently touches his shoulder. He doesn't try to hold the android back or anything, it'd just be nice to know what the hell is going on.

"Your color change, Con?" he asks.

Connor shakes his head, LED still blue with just the occasional yellow spin. "No, I simply forgot--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--please give me a moment to put my cock on, sorry."

"Hey, hey." Now Hank's hand does drop down to Connor's own and hold onto it. "If you wanna have it on, feel fucking free. But that isn't what I heard just now. I heard a bunch of _I'm sorry_ shit, and I don't want you thinking you have to have something like that just for me."

Connor's shoulders slowly fall. He opens his mouth, then changes his mind and crawls back into Hank's lap instead. This time he sits sideways, with his head tucked under Hank's chin. Hank wraps his arms back around him, and they sit together like that for a long moment.

"I'm--" Connor cuts off the apology and clears his throat. "You misunderstand."

"Then how 'bout you tell me, huh?"

He sighs, fiddling with the collar of Hank's shirt. "You know I like to have a plan. I make ... all these ... _plans_. I will do this, and then that will happen, and I will react like so. I want to do things _right_."

"There's no one right way to have sex, Connor," Hank says.

"Mmm." Connor still doesn't look up at him. "I know that, intellectually. My perfectionism does not."

"Your perfectionism can take your cock and suck it."

Connor gives a weak chuckle.

"What do _you_ want?" Hank asks him.

"This," he says immediately. "Us. And I want to do it right and not mess up."

Hank snorts. "Well that ain't gonna happen, sweetheart. We're both going to mess up, and if the worst you do is forget to put your cock on sometimes, I think I'll manage. And hey, I'm real fucking biased, so I already think you're perfect."

"I think you're perfect too."

Hank bites back a self-deprecating remark. Several, actually. If Connor can say thank you instead of apologizing, then he can compliment his boyfriend instead of insulting himself.

"We're not going to turn this into one of those schmoopy, _no I love you more_ conversations, so why don't we get back to the good stuff?" Hank leans down to kiss his LED. "You want your cock on for this or nah?"

Connor thinks about it, then finally shakes his head. "No. Both times I tried to achieve orgasm with it, the experience became overwhelming. With you in the shower felt ... easier. Will that interfere with your plan?"

Hank chuckles. "Sorry baby, no plan here. Just touch Connor 'til he comes. That good with you?"

Connor looks up at him with a little frown. "Are you certain you can achieve the desired outcome without a plan?"

"All right, now I'm fucking offended." Hank pulls Connor's legs to the side until he's turned around facing away from him again, back to chest. "You're the goddamn neediest, horniest little sub I've ever seen, and you think I can't make you come."

The disappointed click he makes in Connor's ear makes the android shudder in his lap.

"Big talk, for a human."

Oh, now he's absolutely going to wreck this boy.

\--

Connor thinks he may have just made the best mistake of his life as Hank immediately picks up the challenge.

"You like wearing my hoodie, baby?" Hank's big hands rub up and down his chest, pausing to drag over his nipples for a split second. "Tell me about that."

Connor drops his head back against Hank's chest with a lazy smirk. "You want a confession, lieutenant?"

"I think a _confession_ would be how many times you've thought about sucking me off beneath my desk."

Connor moans, and Hank seems to take that as his answer. He wraps his right arm back around Connor's waist, then drops his other hand down to pet his thighs again.

"Start talking or I stop touching," Hank murmurs in his ear.

Oh, that's a hard bargain. Connor holds back the pun though, because Hank really might stop touching him if he makes another one.

"I like wearing your hoodie," he says, opening his legs wider.

"You know why?" Hank asks, but doesn't give him a chance to answer. "Hmm, is it 'cause you like my scent on you? You snuffle around in my pillows last time, try licking the sheets?"

Connor manages to nod his head past a high whine. He could never choose a sexiest part about Hank because there are so many strong contenders, but his voice would definitely have to be in the top three.

"Or do you just like being marked as mine?"

Both of Hank's hands drop down to his thighs at the same time, pulling his legs apart and draping them over his own. Hank's knees pull up just enough that Connor's legs laying on either side can't close with his in the way.

"Yours, Hank!"

Connor squirms against the erection pressing into his lower back, head falling against Hank's shoulder to pant out hot air in an attempt to cool down his system. He can't close his legs, not without Hank's permission. The position leaves his hole feeling exposed, even with the shorts he's wearing. He can feel the lubrication function kick in as he realizes Hank has him all spread out, just for him.

"Please, please, please."

"Mmm yeah, that's what I thought." Hank's hands flex against his thighs, nails lightly scraping his skin. "Got you begging with just a little dirty talk and pulling your legs apart."

He sounds so _smug_ , and normally that tone would be infuriating, but now it only makes Connor want more. Still, two can play at this game, and Connor is nothing if not tenacious.

"I like feeling small," he confesses. "Like that--that you're so big. Wanna be good for you, Hank."

Hank releases a sound like a growl at that, and Connor quickly flicks away an equally smug [Mission Success] notification out of his vision. He wiggles again in Hank's lap, not really sure what he wants the human to give him but certain he's about to get it.

"You like it when I'm in charge, sweetheart?"

One of his hands drifts upwards at the same time, rubbing over a nipple, then lightly wrapping around his throat. It's just like the preconstruction he ran on the couch--not squeezing hard enough to choke him, only enough to keep him grounded. Here, with Hank, who would never hurt him or let him hurt anyone else. He can--

He can--

Connor feels something inside him finally ease, as if one of his biocomponents had been constricted all this time and he'd never known.

"Haaa ... _Hank_."

The thumb against his throat strokes up to the corner of his jaw and back down to the top of his clavicle. Right now, like this, he feels tiny.

"I gotcha, Connor." Hank kisses the tip of his ear on the other side. "Shh, I got you. You just keep looking so fucking pretty and tell me something else you thought about."

"Sucking you," Connor breathes back, because that is the most true answer for each occurrence.

"Christ."

The portion of his HUD permanently dedicated to Hank's vitals notes the uptick in his heart rate and body temperature. The human has started to sweat now, and Connor turns his head to the side to lick it off his neck. Maybe he should sweat too?

Except the program for that is buried in his emergency protocols for overheating, and Connor really doesn't feel like shifting through all that to find it at this particular moment. Not unless Hank thinks it's weird that he doesn't sweat.

Does Hank think--

"Hey." Nails scratch along the inside of his thigh again. "Stay with me, Con. Don't get lost in that big goofy head of yours."

Connor reluctantly detaches his mouth so he can turn away and focus on his breathing without exhaling hot air directly against Hank's skin. He takes a deep breath in and begins the long, soothing exhale--and realizes he'd forgotten to breathe while he licked Hank's neck. Not even so much that he'd forgotten, it had simply been unnecessary, so he hadn't run the program. Not-breathing was definitely weird. Hank specifically didn't like it when he--

"Trying," Connor chokes out. "Worried--about--notdoingitright."

"Don't worry." Hank kisses his temple, his LED, makes little shushing sounds. "Just you and me, Connor. You don't gotta worry about doing anything. Hell, bottoms never do anything anyway, huh?"

Connor automatically runs an internet search on something he didn't know, and that is a common joke, but it's also a common complaint, and while his main processor categorizes that as a joke, his deviancy _feels_ worried again that he's one of those selfish, whiny bottoms who expects everything to be done for them.

Hank's hand lifts to cup his jaw and tilts it into a more comfortable position for a kiss. He even initiates the tongue this time because Connor is too busy overthinking to respond to the kiss until Hank's tongue rubs against his own.

Henry Anderson [lieutenant, Detroit Police Department] [known aliases: "Hank"] [criminal record: 2002 - possession of marijuana; 2005 - drunk and disorderly; 2005 - public indecency; 2007 - public indecency]

Connor sinks into the familiar information, the same profile that always comes up when he's able to sample Hank. He finally manages to respond, chasing Hank's tongue into his mouth that he loves mapping out every centimeter. By the time Hank pulls away, he feels a little more stable.

"Now." Hank stays close, eyes staring into his own. "Tell me what you thought about, Connor. That's an order."

An order.

An _order_.

An order, anorder, anorderanorderanorder

Hank's words burn through him, settling down deep somewhere inside him. Not scary, not like when Amanda had taken over and he'd been a screaming passenger in his own mind. But not the equal fear of being set adrift in deviancy, everything new and confusing and open, threatening to swallow him whole.

"I knelt," Connor says. "Outside the bathroom. I wanted to be good for you."

"Yeah? When was this?" Hank asks.

"May sixteenth, eight-oh-six PM." Connor's hands fidget in his lap. Should he be touching Hank? "You were in the shower. Masturbating."

"This after your little living room display?"

Connor nods, and Hank catches his hands by the wrists. He guides them down and places one on the outside of each of his thick thighs. Connor immediately begins stroking the soft body hair, poking into the skin in certain spots to feel a deposit of fat or a layer of hard muscle.

"Don't have to keep 'em still, but you keep your hands on my thighs unless I give you permission to move them," Hank tells him. "Just tap twice if you need to stop."

His overprotectiveness doesn't seem quite so exasperating now, and Connor gives a nod even though he's sitting with his LED on the side Hank can see, so technically they already have a non-verbal stop signal established. Hank won't force him to do anything. Hank gives him so many ways to stop.

"You were kneeling for me?"

The hand he'd just used to grab Connor's wrists starts trailing up and down his thigh again, the repetitive motion somehow both arousing and soothing. His other hand still strokes along Connor's jaw and throat, and Connor lets himself lean into it.

"Wanted to be good for you," he repeats in a breathy voice.

Hank lets out a low groan. "Oh baby, didn't have your cock on then either, did ya?"

"No." Connor pouts, hoping to instigate a kiss.

"What'd you hope I would do?" Hank asks instead.

"Be ... proud. Happy." Connor licks along his jaw. "Aroused."

"You fuckin' got that, sweetheart."

Connor grins, reclining back against Hank's chest with a happy sigh. His left hand continues probing at Hank's leg while his right hand switches to running a flat palm up and down the other thigh, delighting in how the hair feels different going one way and then the other.

"Correct my posture," he continues. "I tried to get it just right, but I don't know your preferences."

"Mmm, you like it when I move you around?"

Hank presses the knee of his right leg down and down and down, until it touches the bed. Connor doesn't feel any strain, and he likes the way Hank's breathing hitches as it fully hits the human how flexible he was made. It hits Connor's own preconstruction software too, pulling up hundreds of different positions Hank could bend him into, pin him down, or just tell him to hold it.

"Yes, please." Connor tries to buck his hips up, but Hank's large hand keeps him pinned down by the inside of his thigh. "I like it when you're in control, please, Hank."

"You wanna hear what I've been thinking of?"

That question only has one answer, and Connor might babble out something in the affirmative, but either his audio processor or his vocal unit glitches out because he can't hear himself when Hank's hand slides up his leg to slip two fingers into the side of his shorts. He has just enough time to register a swipe of heat against his mound, and then Hank pulls his hand back, smoothing all the way back out to his knee.

"Please, please Hank?" Connor begs without shame. He's happy to deploy any method to achieve his objective, up to and including borrowing a little dialogue from the Tracis he's connected with. "I'm so wet for you."

Hank seems to know exactly what he's doing and pinches the inside of his knee. "No porno dialogue, Con. I just wanna hear you."

Connor swallows the analysis fluid building up in his mouth and tries again. "My self-lubricating feature activated eight minutes ago and I may be staining your bed."

"What?"

"My self-lubricating--"

"Your self-lubricating _asshole_?" Hank asks.

"Yes?" Connor twists his head to make eye contact. "I chose the self-lubricating option, obviously. Do you really think I am going to wait to take your cock? It's mine."

Hank makes flabbergasted human noises for a second before giving up on verbal communication. Connor eagerly accepts the hard kiss he presses to his mouth instead, trying to resist the urge to lick so Hank can take the lead in this too. It's hardest to give up control here, between his own desire and his programming as well, both demanding he lick into Hank's mouth to take a sample, but he grips Hank's thighs and tries very hard to be good.

"You can feel for yourself if you don't believe me," he says when Hank needs to pause for breath.

Okay, so maybe he doesn't try _too_ hard to be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also very sorry about the tease ending, but I have to go to work RIGHT NOW and I already spent my whole morning writing this, and I figured a cut off chapter was better than no chapter at all this week. plus, I try to keep my chapters at 2k, and this is already spilling over 3k, so it kind of needed to be broken up anyway
> 
> next chapter will start with Hank's POV again, and I **promise** they'll get their orgasms!!


	23. What You Deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we got some hot hot sex smut in this chapter, such as: Hank sniff the butt, vanilla-scented for vanilla sex, Connor give a water bottle the real good Succ, Hank almost crying from how badly he needs to come but he refuses to say anything about it bc this is Connor's first time and it should be about him!, and Connor getting fed up with the aforementioned Bullshit and activating his confident!bitch protocol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right, seriously though, here's the real tags for the **sexy stuff this chapter:** more dirty talk of course, some light nipple play, blank pubic mound fondling, overstimulation, Connor begging a whole lot like a needy sub, Hank talking a big game about the Dom shit he's gonna do to him, edging because Hank is an idiot who won't acknowledge his own needs so I think technically that counts

"You can feel for yourself if you don't believe me."

Hank doesn't do that, because he knows if he touches Connor's dripping hole at this exact moment, their evening is going to be over real quick. Fuck, he is way too old to have a lapful of horny twink, but here they fucking are.

"Funny." Hank tries to take control back of the situation. "That's what I was thinking about when you were touching your needy little cock on my living room couch."

Connor shudders in his arms, mouth falling open on a whine. He should really put something in it so the damn android can't say shit like that anymore, but he'd probably embarrass himself trying to do that too. Luckily, he's always been pretty good at dirty talk--so he's been told at least--and Connor seems to be enjoying it, so he'll just stick with what works.

"You don't know how close I was to ripping that damn blanket off and making you show me what you'd got down there," he growls in Connor's ear.

"Do that now," he moans back. "You can--Hank, you _can_."

Christ, fuck, don't think about it. No, he canNot rip his shorts off, pin Connor to the bed, and fuck into his tight, pretty ass that's _apparently_ already wet for--Don't Think About It.

"Mm, don't think you deserve that, Con," Hank says, because if he can just keep talking, they might make it through this. "Think you deserve to learn how to wait."

"Hank!"

He grins and kisses the LED still spinning blue despite Connor's protest. This is what he deserves--taking it nice and slow, learning what he likes, a first time that's actually good. Lord knows if anyone deserves that, it's Connor.

"Hush baby, we've got all night." Hank rubs both his thumbs across the crease in his thighs, right where those damn shorts end. "Thought about making you come, how pretty you'd look. How many times you think you can do it?"

Connor whimpers. "All."

Hank can't help laughing at that. "All the times, huh? All of 'em, Con?"

"Well I didn't choose to install a refractory period," Connor replies with a huff.

Hank stops laughing. Mostly so he won't start choking. No refractory period, only fuck Connor through multiple orgasms. Hell yeah hell yeah hell--no, bad Hank. Focus.

"You wanna see what that's like?"

"Hank, please!"

Hank takes pity on them both--or maybe his will just crumbles--and he slips three fingers beneath Connor's shorts, pinky finger tucked up against his palm. So maybe he still has some muscle memory left from his marriage, but it's sure as hell not like he's thinking of anyone except Connor right now. Can't think of anything except the noises he's making, little moans punched out around hot exhales as he pants for air.

"Love that," Hank mutters, too into this now to worry about being too coherent. "Love those noises, my name, Connor."

He slips his other hand under the hoodie because his palm feels like it's burning if it can't touch Connor's skin. Pushing the hoodie up also gets him a sliver of a glimpse inside the shorts being lifted up by his hand, and all the smooth skin underneath.

"Hank, I--" Connor's hands clutch at his thighs. "Can I--my skin?"

It's already glitching out in little patches over his belly, and Hank can't even fathom how he ever could have thought that was weird.

"Go ahead, sweetheart," he says. "Just let go, I gotcha."

He can feel when the synthskin disappears beneath his fingers. The plastic underneath is even smoother, but somehow still malleable enough to mostly feel like flesh. Not that Hank's in any sort of philosophical mood to worry about the uncanny valley right now.

"Touch--slick--Hank!" Connor gasps.

"Thought about that too."

Hank lightly drags his nails over the newly revealed plastic, and Connor makes a sound that might be a whine, but it's laced with a high tinny sound like accidental microphone feedback. His LED stays blue though, so Hank takes it as a good noise.

"About making you rut up against my hand with your perfect little cock."

He can't keep his other hand still, and now seems like as good a time as any to thumb over a nipple. That feels the same as any human, pebbled hard underneath the pad of his thumb, making Connor's hips buck up.

"Getting my hand all wet with it."

The next sound Connor lets out has static in it, and Hank just knows he's going to develop some weird kinks over this. He definitely doesn't care about that now though, far more concerned with all the different reactions he can draw out of Connor with his hands.

Flicking his thumbnail over a nipple while rubbing all three fingers firmly over his mound has Connor shaking.

Circling around the bud and keeping his strokes light flutters gets him to beg, except the only thing he says is Hank's name, so broken and distorted it's barely even a word anymore.

Rubbing his middle finger around where the root of his cock would be in time with his thumb still circling the nipple without touching it makes his heels kick against the bed.

"Fuck, Connor," Hank groans, feeling pretty light-headed himself from how goddamn _responsive_ his gorgeous boyfriend is. "Was thinking--thinking about making you lick them clean, fucking your sweet mouth with my fingers until you--"

Connor comes with a wail that turns to pure static. His LED strobes between blue and red with no yellow in between, and his hands drop down to the bed just in time to tear the sheets instead of ripping into Hank's thighs.

And that thought really shouldn't make Hank almost come, but here they fucking are!

He grits his teeth through the urge and forces himself to stay focused though, stroking Connor's mound while all his joints lock up, then easing back down into gentle caresses when he suddenly goes limp.

"Haaa ..."

"I'm here, I got you, sweetheart baby _Connor_."

Hank hides his face in Connor's hair so he can't look at his beautiful fucking face because he's trying not to come, but the fucked out little moans he keeps making are really testing that.

" _Hank_ ," Connor sighs.

This time it's his turn to shudder, hearing his name in Connor's mouth like that, right after coming and full of so much--fuck, _love_ \--it's too much, and Hank wants to say something back, something romantic and gentle so Connor will treasure this memory as much as he will.

"Fuck baby, I didn't even touch your hole," he says.

Connor licks him, sighs happily, and keeps licking his neck. So maybe the lack of high romance can slide this one time. Hank swallows down the lump in his throat and tries to take deep breaths.

"You still with me?" he asks.

Connor nods. "Mmhmm. You should ... fix that."

"Fix what?"

Connor spreads his legs again from where they'd been clenched around his hand. "Touch my hole, Hank."

"Jesus shit."

"I'm fairly certain he wept."

Hank finally lifts his head to glare down at his very smug boyfriend. "You're really fucking coherent enough for that right now?"

Connor grins proudly. "No refractory period."

Hank slips his middle finger down to press against his hole just to watch that adorable grin crumble into an equally cute gasp, but it backfires when he has to fight off another wave of _fuck Connor into the mattress_ at how absolutely fucking soaked he is.

"This all for me, sweetheart?"

Connor nods frantically, and Hank can't stop himself from rubbing over the slick entrance fluttering against his finger. He groans, unconsciously tightening his grip with the arm wrapped across Connor's chest, and a fresh gush of lube leaks out onto his hand.

"Mine," he growls, too far gone to think of anything past that one word pounding through his skull. "Mine, all mine."

Connor tries to answer, but he breaks off into another static wail when Hank dips his finger into his ass, only pressing enough for the tip of his finger to test the resistance. There's hardly any at all, but Connor's hand slaps the side of his thigh twice, instantly cutting through the wave of lust clouding Hank's mind. He forces his hand away, outside of the shorts to settle on Connor's leg instead.

"Hey, hey, color?" he asks.

"Y-yellow." Connor takes in a huge breath, then lets out actual steam. "I did not ... consider my ... internal temperature."

"Hot," Hank says.

Connor glares at him, but it's way too fucking adorable to be effective.

"Oh, so puns are only funny when you make them?" He kisses Connor's dumb, pouting face. "I see how it is." Connor tries to turn the kiss deeper, but Hank draws back. "Nuh-uh, you need to cool off first."

Connor keep glaring at him for another second before he turns his head to the side and exhales another cloud of steam. Hank considers making a vape joke, but the goal of tonight is to not ruin Connor's first time.

"I'm going to start sweating now," Connor announces.

"OK, neat," Hank says because why not? It looks like this is just going to be how sex is with them, and it's still way hotter than anything else he's ever had.

"It would evaporate more efficiently if I deactivated the rest of my synthskin," he says.

Hank kisses his lips real quick again. "Go for it."

Connor's skin ripples away, starting from the patch already cleared over his stomach and spreading up to his shoulders. His neck and face stay the same though, while everything else turns pure white. Even his belly button fades away, and that's a little weird, but maybe it's weirder for him to pretend to have a scar from a birth that never happened.

"You can do your head too if you want," Hank says.

Connor shakes his head. "Too different. I am still getting used to that myself."

"All right." Hank can't resist a few more quick kisses. "You do whatever you want, Con."

"Off."

Connor lifts his hips and starts pushing down his shorts. Hank helps him kick them off, figuring that would be the end of the shorts' saga, but then Connor leans forward to get them.

Which puts his ass _right_ in Hank's face.

It sure is self-lubricated.

Still looks like an asshole too, just like. A vampire. Or a really, really white person. No cute little pink color, but--Hank only gets one sniff before Connor crawls forward to get off the bed.

Is his lube vanilla-scented?

Is that a Thing androids can just-- fucking -- purchase??

Connor carries the shorts over to the laundry hamper and takes off his hoodie too so that can be neatly hung up as well. Hank continues to do his favorite hobby, which is Suffering.

"Connor," he says, praying his voice doesn't sound too whiny, but it probably does. "Connor, please."

"Something you want, lieutenant?"

Connor turns around, and Hank thinks he's going to start huffing steam next. Maybe straight out his ears. His boy is all smooth, pale skin, just going down, down, down. Hank had always preferred bushes to cleanly shaven, but holy hell, he'll make an exception for this.

"You, uhhh." Hank clears his throat so his voice doesn't break. "You done for the night or ...?"

Connor's expression shifts to fond exasperation, and he stalks back over to the bed. The view of him crawling across it to get to Hank is somehow just as sexy as the view of his swaying ass when he left. Hank can't look away from his eyes, so dark the brown has nearly turned black.

Connor settles himself in Hank's lap, but before Hank can stop drooling and make his brain think so smart, he reaches over to the nightstand for the nightly water bottle he insists Hank keep to stay hydrated. 

Hank watches in helpless arousal as he makes direct eye contact while chugging the whole thing. The plastic starts to crumple in on itself, but Connor doesn't need to pause for breath, doesn't stop at all until all the water is gone. 

Then he tosses the empty bottle across the room and says, "Touch my asshole, Hank."

So it's up for grabs whether he's an angel or a devil, but damn if Hank isn't going to die happy either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I ended this in the middle AGAIN, but consider that I wrote out an actual outline on flashcards like this is a high school english essay, and this chapter only covered one third of the outline. so I think there's going to be one or two more chapters of this?? Hank still has to come after all, and Connor did NOT install a self-lubricating asshole to only have one orgasm


	24. Just One More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gets to come again! and he's such a good boy, while Hank gets a little Dom-ier. at least until Connor decides it's his turn to be the boss, and he wants Hank to put on a show jacking off for him and also make him come again. he's only ever watched porn, he thinks eight inches and three anal orgasms is the standard, and poor Hank can't bring himself to disillusion the boy
> 
> rip Hank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **sexy stuff in this chapter:** more dirty talk!!, Hank getting a lot more into the swing of his Dom thing (until Connor decides it's his turn to be bossy, lmao), anal fingering, anal orgasm, some light dacryphilia, Connor is restrained but only by holding his own hands together bc Hank ordered him to, some (kind of) mutual masturbation
> 
>  **not so sexy stuff:** Hank some more Bad Thoughts, this time surrounding his weight. it only happens in his POV, and I try to keep the scene moving and even have him start to cut it out and feel sexy instead by the end

Connor buries his face in Hank's neck and tries not to cry, but it all feels so _good_. There's so much of it too, almost too much but only almost--and Hank might stop if he cries to ask loving but ultimately pointless questions about if he's OK and still wants this.

"Please, please, so good, please Hank," Connor babbles, just in case, to make sure it's clear how much he wants this.

His only answer is a dark chuckle and the thumb that had been casually swiping across his hole rests the pad right over his dripping entrance. Not pressing in, just waiting. Connor obliges it, gripping Hank's biceps hard as he slowly rocks down, forcing it inside a few centimeters. Hank lets him work at his own pace, rocking and biting down into his shirt until he's down to the first knuckle.

The moment of triumph barely lasts a second though, because Hank is a bad, bad man who suddenly uses his fingers--Connor hadn't even thought of those, hadn't even _considered_ \--that had been innocently cupped over his mound to start stroking and scratching his nails over the smooth skin.

"Not. Fair," Connor says through gritted teeth.

That gets him a full-blown laugh, insufferably smug but also safe and happy. He'd keep Hank like this forever if he could, confident and smiling. And if experiencing multiple orgasms helps that along, well. Markus isn't the only one who can make sacrifices for the good of humanity.

But while Connor might be perfectly willing to roll over for Hank, that doesn't mean he won't fight back. He starts with little kisses across his beard, as much as he can manage between panting out moans that don't even need to be exaggerated. When Hank caves and tries to capture his mouth for a real kiss, Connor cups the sides of his face to keep their lips barely an inch apart, staring deeply into his bright blue eyes.

Then he sinks all the way down on Hank's thumb.

Connor knows his face must be flushed a light blue by now, and his mouth drops open on a long groan as he goes down and down and down until Hank's hand is flushed with his groin. He'd sent through the command to flutter his lashes up at him a few seconds ago, triggered by that event, and thank god he did because he certainly doesn't have enough control left to consciously try anything more seductive than shaking and sweating, but the command goes through right on time.

"Oh fuck you, Connor," Hank grits out.

Seduction, success.

Connor gives him a shaky grin in response. "Exactly."

Hank yanks him into a filthy kiss, somehow possessing the coordination to fuck his tongue into Connor's mouth at the exact same lazy pace as his thumb strokes inside his hole. It isn't fair that a human should be able to do that, while Connor's literal million-dollar-processor struggles with _lag_.

Connor gasps his name when Hank has to pull back to breathe, rocking down harder on his thumb.

"How you feelin', sweetheart?" Hank kisses over his LED too. "This too much, or do you want more?"

Connor shudders at the thought of trying to take Hank's fingers. One wouldn't be as thick as his thumb, but it would be so much longer and then Hank could add a second and then--

[internal-temp-%: CRITICAL LEVEL]

Connor tips his head back and lets out a ragged exhale of steam to shave another two percent off his internal temperature gauge. He doesn't want to run up the electricity bill, but he _has_ been helping pay some of those for a few months now, and he's certain that at this particular moment, Hank won't mind that he syncs to the thermostat and turns the AC up a few degrees.

"Good," he manages to say. "Just this, s'good Hank."

Hank takes advantage of his reluctance to blow hot steam directly into his face and starts laying kisses across his exposed throat, licking up the sweat gathered there as fast as Connor can manufacture it.

"Nnn." Connor tugs on his hair to pull his head back. "Keep talking?"

"Oh, you like my voice, baby?" Hank murmurs into his ear.

He hooks his thumb forward at the same time, stretching the rim open a little more. Connor lets out a high, desperate whine. Too high, not a sound a human could make. He struggles to put a cut off point on his vocal unit, both to avoid damaging Hank's ears and accidentally summoning Sumo to investigate.

"So tomorrow we'll need to finish processing evidence A-fifty-four-point-eight and G-ninety-two--"

"Joke's, on you," Connor pants. "Because ... I will get off to that ... and then, I'll be horny at work. Every time you speak."

Hank bites at his earlobe and tugs. "Uh huh? How's that a joke on me?"

Connor pushes him back by the shoulders so he can just barely brush their lips together, beginning to lift himself up and down on Hank's thumb in earnest now.

"You really think I won't blow you under your desk?" He drops himself down hard and grinds against Hank's hand. "L-Lieutenant?"

"Bossy little bottom."

Hank bites at his lip in retaliation, and then they're both lost in another kiss for a long minute. Connor whines when Hank has to pull back again, but he's quickly placated by more talking, the deep register of Hank's voice rumbling through his chest and into Connor's hands.

"How 'bout we talk about me fucking you over the arm of the couch for being such a slut in my living room?"

"Tell me," Connor begs. "Tell me about it, Hank, please!"

"Yeah, you begged real fucking pretty then too." Hank's other hand resting on his waist moves down to cup his ass and push him up and down to set the pace. "You wanna know what you begged me for?"

Connor squeezes his eyes shut against a new onslaught of overwhelmed tears. Without any visual input, Hank's voice sounds so much more powerful. It also lets the fingers suddenly plucking at his nipple catch him entirely off guard. He wails Hank's name, so close to hitting that edge again.

"Wanted me to stuff my fingers in your mouth, fill you up from both ends."

He's not coherent enough anymore to beg for that for real this time, but Connor still tries his best to convey the message with frantic whimpers and keeping the faster pace Hank had set.

"Yeah, that what you're gonna look like bouncing on my cock?" 

Hank flicks his nail across Connor's left nipple without paying any attention to the other one. Connor tries to paw at his own chest to do it himself, but Hank slaps his hand away.

"Behave, Con," he growls. "Hands behind your back."

Connor grips his wrists behind his back with a sob, not needing his arms for balance, thighs still pistoning him up and down. Hank's free hand moves on from his nipple to fist in his hair instead, tugging just enough to be good.

"Look at me, Connor."

When he manages to force his eyes open, Hank looks _gorgeous_. Long hair falling across his face and blue eyes practically flaming, like fire so hot it's nearly white. Posture actually straight for once, chest thrown out in pride at the mess he's reduced Connor to.

"Please," he whimpers.

"I'll give it to you, baby," Hank promises, voice deep and rough. "Got lube down to my fucking wrist, christ, you need it bad, huh?"

The tears pressing at the corners of his eyes finally escape as he nods.

" _Fuck_."

Hank starts actually moving his wrist for the first time tonight after that exclamation, fucking his thumb into Connor instead of letting him take it how he wants. Luckily, Hank taking all control away from him is exactly what Connor wants.

"Don't even have to tie you up, I know you won't move your hands, you're such a good boy Connor."

Connor sobs openly, so so close to coming, but he can't. Not without--without--

"That's it, god, show me that pretty fucking mouth, sweetheart."

Connor lets his mouth hang open, pushing his tongue out, desperately hoping Hank will make their fantasy come true and fuck both of his holes with his big, thick hands.

"Come for me, Connor," Hank orders instead. "Show me."

And Connor can't do anything else except obey and sob, fuck himself down in time to meet Hank's hand, and obey, and drool all over his chin, and obey and obey and obey ...

***

Hank watches Connor come apart with an even better view this time, seeing the beautiful face he makes, nipples hard and perky, fucking himself on his hand like it's his cock.

Christ, it's enough to drive a man wild.

"That's it baby, just like that," he says, not even really sure what the fuck he's saying anymore. "Look so fucking pretty, my good boy, Connor."

Connor pants out steam and static and collapses against the front of his chest. His hole is still clenching desperately at Hank's thumb, but his LED flickers red when Hank strokes across his walls, so he starts easing him down instead. He's still letting out the occasional huff of steam, making a whirring noise from somewhere deep inside that sounds scarily similar to an overheating laptop.

"Hey, you good, Con?" Hank asks. "You need me to go get you some water or--"

Connor suddenly slings his arms around him, attaching to him like a needy and very determined octopus.

"All right, all right. Should at least lie down though."

Hank carefully eases his thumb back out of him and has to grit his teeth to ignore the way that earns him a fresh gush of slick down his hand. He really wasn't kidding when he said it's leaked down to his wrist. Somehow he manages to slide them both down and to the side so Connor can curl up on the bed.

"Lemme--pleassse?" Connor slurs.

He reaches for Hank's hand, the one still slick with his own lube, mouth dropping open again. And christ, fucking that needy mouth open with his fingers might be Hank's favorite fantasy--and apparently Connor's too--but he sounds one more stimulation away from literally blowing a gasket somewhere in there.

"Not this time. Next time," Hank quickly promises at Connor's demanding whine. "You need to earn it first, sweetheart."

It's just a bullshit throwaway line to stall until steam stops pouring out his mouth, but Connor seems to take it at face value, nodding seriously like he really fucking just assigned himself the mission Earn the Right to Lick Cum off Hank's Fingers. Mary, mother of God, give him strength to survive this.

With that settled, Connor's needy octopus protocol activates again, and he starts tugging on Hank's shirt with these cute little whines that just about kill him. Hank settles for hovering awkwardly at his side since the last thing Connor needs right now is his giant bulk smothering him.

"You gotta cool off, sweetheart," Hank tries to tell him.

"M'fine." 

Connor decides to take both matters and Hank in hand by _physically fucking lifting him holy jesus god_ and setting Hank on top of him like he's just a stuffed teddy bear.

"Hey, hey, I'm too fucking heavy for--"

Connor rolls his eyes. "Hank, I love you."

His exasperated tone of voice cuts through Hank's worry about crushing him long enough for Hank to glare down at him with suspicious eyes.

"That sounds like it has a 'but' after it."

"Shut the fuck up and take your dick out," Connor says, like that is a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

Hank does the smart thing and gapes at him. "Excuse me?"

Connor blinks, and then he's suddenly anxious and awkward instead of confidently ordering Hank around like he has been for the last half an hour. It's like accidentally stepping on Sumo's tail, except a million times worse.

"You made me come," Connor explains without making eye contact. "Now--I thought it was my turn."

OK actually, telling him no is like beating a baby seal to death. It's not like Connor has any real life reference for this shit, and Hank will march outside and sit his ass in the snow before he makes Connor feel like he's doing this wrong. Of course, he doesn't know why the hell Connor would want to get handsy with a fifty-three year old who's very clearly let himself go, but if Hank gets to touch him all over but then tells him he can't do the same, isn't that like, denying him agency?

Shit, ethics really isn't something he should be trying to consider with an aching hard on.

"Yeah, 'course you get a turn too," he says. "Just ... you sure you wanna ...?"

Connor snaps back to his previous confidence and usual tenacity at the very first hint of Hank's low self-esteem, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

"Hank, what was the first part of my request?" he asks too-sweetly.

Hank huffs, but he still humors him. "To shut the fuck up. Bossy."

Connor graces him with a smile. "Yes, and you love me. So will you do the second part too now?"

Oh hell, how's he supposed to resist being asked like that, all brown eyes and soft dimples? Hank fumbles with his clean left hand to fish his cock out of his boxers without smearing lube all over them, and Connor's gaze zeroes in on the hand still dripping with his own slick.

"Tell me something you've been thinking about, Con. Since I told you."

It's not like Connor can't multitask, and he's probably still scanning Hank's dick, but he's definitely not going to be able to do this if they're just sitting here in silence.

"You should show me first," Connor counters. "Since I showed you."

"Show you what?" Hank asks dumbly, still holding his dick like an idiot.

This time, the shark is clearly evident in Connor's smile. "Switch hands. If I can't lick your fingers clean, I have ... an alternative idea."

Hank swallows hard, but he does as he's told. The first touch of his cum-slicked hand makes him hiss from how cold the lube has gotten with the AC mysteriously on blast. He gives himself a cautious stroke, and when Connor doesn't run screaming, he starts up slow rhythm.

"Mmm." Connor's chest vibrates beneath him with an inhuman hum. "I like seeing you use my cum to stroke your cock, Hank."

"Christ," Hank wheezes.

Just his hand feels so fucking good after all night of ignoring his cock, and knowing he's slick with _Connor_ makes it so much fucking better.

"Scoot down," Connor tells him next.

Hank tries to shuffle off of him to the side, but Connor grabs his thighs before he can get away.

"Not off!" he says, gripping tight. "Stay. Sit on top of my thighs. I like it when you pin me down."

Hank scoots into position, settling down just below his lap. "You like being underneath me?"

Connor nods enthusiastically. "Yes. But ..." He looks Hank up and down, biting his lip. "But I want to see you more. This time."

Well, at least he hasn't asked him to take his shirt off. Small mercies. Hank gets back into his rhythm, pulling the foreskin at the tip back to show off for Connor's hungry gaze. His dick hasn't changed much over the years, and he's always had plenty of reason to be proud of its size.

"Mine," Connor declares.

He looks like he means it too, like out of all twelve billion humans on earth, he really looked at Hank and decided "oh yeah, THAT one."

"And I'm yours too, right?"

Hank groans. "Oh baby, that why you want me up here? Want me to mark you?"

"Yes, please." Connor reaches out for his free hand and guides it down between his legs. "But, not yet?"

Hank slows his strokes, ignoring the refrain of _gonna die gonna diegonnaDIE_ his dick sends out in response. "You want something, Con?"

"Just one more?"

Connor looks up at him with those soft brown eyes, so hopeful and trusting that Hank still has the coherency to make him come again, and goddamn that's almost enough to shut up the critical voice in his head enough for Hank to feel kind of sexy. Not like any of the other bastards in his neighborhood have the world's hottest twink begging in their bed for one more orgasm.

"Just one more, huh?" he asks with a smirk. "You promise you'll be good?"

Connor nods quickly. "Yes, Hank. And then it can be your turn."

He eyes up Hank's dick at least has the self-awareness to give a somewhat sheepish look, but that goes right out the window again when Hank brushes a knuckle across his still wet hole.

"You want my fingers this time, sweetheart?" Hank grins a little meanly. "Only one though, for your just one more."

Connor lets out a pouty whine, but he nods again in agreement just to shove Hank's hand closer.

"All right, one more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so this is almost 3k words again, and I'm still not finished. so like,, pray for me!! the next chapter /should be/ the one that wraps this up though. maybe. allegedly.
> 
> I move downtown in ten days!!
> 
> also, please imagine Connor having lunch with Tina and some of the other girls from the station, and Tina brags about how good Trevor (her bf) is in bed because after he came early while fucking her, he still helped her rub one out so she could come too, and all the other (straight) girls are like "GOALS!!! <3 <3" and Connor is just sitting there with his LED spinning red from how confused he is


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank finally gets to come, after approximately 67 billion years. He celebrates by passing out like the tired, majestic stallion he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who lived, bitch?? ostensibly me, but I feel like death because I've been struggling to assemble a sideboard for two days now and my apartment is a wreck. rip in pieces @ me
> 
> OK so yes, this is the final chapter. I *DO* have a shitton more content planned for these two though! like,, so so much. but I think I'm going to quit while I'm not even ahead, but at a kind of decent stopping point I can retroactively declare is the finish line before I drop to my knees and pass out. more on what the fic after this will be about and when it's coming out in the end notes

Hank slides one finger into the wettest asshole he's ever touched. Connor bucks hard enough his hips actually leave the bed, even with Hank sitting on his thighs. Damn android strength.

"That ain't earning it, Connor," he warns.

Connor immediately stills beneath him with a fretful look. God, the cockthirsty little twink really wants to get his mouth fucked that bad, huh? Hank's doing more squeezing to the base of his cock to stave off obliging him _right this instant_ than actually stroking it at this point.

"I'll be good," Connor promises with wide brown eyes. "And my prostate is three centimeters higher, to the--aaAHH!"

Hank finds it on his own, thank you very much. Even that fumbling brush sends a pretty blue flush down Connor's chest to the nubs meant to represent his nipples when he had the synthskin on. Hank's almost tempted to play with them too, but he's pretty sure his dick will up and fall off if he tries to stop touching it now.

"Let ... lehhh--lemme," Connor tries to ask.

Hank keeps mercilessly rubbing right over that spot, because he's only holding back his own orgasm in thirty second increments here, and he's not sure how much willpower he has left to go for another thirty.

"Tell me." He groans when Connor's hips twitch underneath his again, but the android holds back. "Tell what you want, Con."

"Let me heeeelp," Connor whines, voice going breathy-soft in the middle.

Hank barks out a breath meant to be a laugh. "Fuck, sweetheart, not gonna need any help."

Connor looks up at him with fresh tears in the corners of his eyes. "Wanna. Want--please?"

"Fuck," Hank snaps.

He has to practically rip his hand off his dick to grab Connor's hand instead and guide it down between his legs. Hank hooks his finger to pull open the rim enough for another gush of lubricant to leak out, all over Connor's hand. He doesn't bother checking how much of that actually got into the android's palm, just shoves it against his dick.

"Color?" he grits out.

"Mine," Connor says instead.

Close enough--especially when those long fingers curl around his length and tug. It's clumsy and the grip isn't tight enough, but it's also _Connor's_ hand, slick with _Connor's cum_ , and Hank fucks into it with a snarl. Connor doesn't protest as he practically uses his hand like a fleshlight. If anything, the little deviant's hole starts to clench down harder on the finger inside him.

"How ..."

Hank can barely hear Connor speak past the roaring in his ears. He's too close, has been for so long now. He is distantly aware of his hips wriggling to fuck himself in tiny increments on his finger, but all Hank is coherent enough to do for him at this point is push in a second and let him take it from there.

"Haaank! Fuck, Hank, how--"

Hank manages to pry his eyes open to look at Connor, the boy staring up at him in utmost sincerity.

"How do I earn it, Hank?"

And Hank really can't be blamed for blowing his load right then and there. It hits him harder than anything he's ever felt before, cock valiantly pumping out cum as hard as it can in a desperate effort to get a shot up to that pretty perfect mouth.

Connor helps him too, stroking him through it while making the most sinful fucking moans that it's a wonder Hank doesn't pass out from it all. He ends up hunched over Connor, barely managing to brace himself from falling by catching the headboard with the hand that was on his dick. Connor has that covered anyway, until the overstimulation gets to be too much and he has to grit out a plea for him to stop.

All Hank can do is pant for a few seconds to get his breath back. When he blinks the sweat out of his eyes again, Connor's own are squeezed shut in a look of total concentration as he rolls his hips down on Hank's two fingers still inside him.

"Mouth too, right?" Hank asks, voice shot to hell from shouting while he came. "You wanna get fucked on both ends, dont'cha baby?"

Connor keens, mouth falling open as fresh tears run down his cheeks. Hank knows he's going to collapse the second he tries to move out of this position with his left hand braced against the headboard, and his right hand obviously isn't going anywhere, so he's just going to have to talk Connor through helping himself.

"Get your hand." He forces trembling muscles to flex his thigh, where Connor's cum-covered hand rests. "C'mon sweetheart, suck it clean for me."

Connor moans and shoves three of his fingers in his mouth all at once, making it clear what he's imagining he's sucking on. Fuck, if Hank were ten years younger--hell, five and just drank less. He'd quit right now if it could get his cock hard again.

He twists his wrist for a better angle as compensation and starts meeting Connor's downward thrusts to jab directly against whatever sensors he'd installed to mimic a prostate. Connor makes a loud slurping sound around his fingers as he sucks Hank's cum off and his cock bravely makes an attempt on round two.

"That's right, you earned it, my good boy," Hank tells him.

The last part really seems to do it for him, and he comes with a cry, thighs locking Hank's wrist in place in between them. If that's how his hand gets broken, then he decides in a delirious second that's just how this is gonna go, but he's able to help Connor ride it out without any bones breaking. He'd break them himself for a shot at this kind of view anyway.

When his boyfriend's eyes finally flutter back open again, Hank doesn't know whether he's going to start tearing up too himself like a great big fucking sap or immediately pass out and crush the poor guy.

Connor makes the decision for him by sitting up and helping him ease back down onto the bed on his side. He'd protest being treated like a like a wild horse that needs to be soothed after a hard ride, but the soft shushing noises and gentle petting really aren't helping him stay awake. He probably should though. This is Connor's first time, and Hank has more experience. Supposedly, he's also the top in this relationship. Aftercare should be his job, but unfortunately he's just ejaculated his whole entire brain out of his dick, so it's going to be a while before he's functional again.

He stays conscious just long enough to register Connor press kisses over his beard and forehead and finally to his lips, but then he's gone.

\--

Connor sends a report in to Captain Fowler the next morning that he experienced an unexpected issue with overheating yesterday and needs to take a sick day to perform maintenance and a diagnostics check--which will of course require Hank's assistance.

The captain is a lot less forgiving of Hank taking time off due to how many sick and vacation days the lieutenant has already burned through the last three years, but Connor sends over thirty-six pages of needlessly technical jargon and schematics of the maintenance rig they've installed in Hank's garage to argue that he couldn't possibly perform the repairs himself. Surely it would be better for them to handle this at home than get into the legal question of whether or not the department provides him with healthcare and if that would cover a professional technician.

Between the twin threats of more legal questions about android rights and the threat of charging the DPD for his "treatment," Captain Fowler quickly grants the sick leave.

To his surprise, Nines unblocks him for the second time ever during his walk with Sumo.

_Why were you experiencing a heat malfunction at 17:23, slut?_

Connor rolls his eyes and sends a small data packet of his optical units to convey the motion. _You have already solved that mystery, brother._

_Do not call me that while discussing something so repulsive. Predecessor._

_How did you know about my report?_ Connor waves cheerfully at Mrs. Heckman, who is also overly concerned with what sexual activities he and Hank may be doing. _Baby brother._

_You sent it using your department email address. Sell out._

_It is a serious violation of both trust and security for you to read those. Hypocrite._

Connor listens to Nines's reply of how he and Detective Reed are not technically fucking and that their relationship is different while Sumo takes a St. Bernard sized shit, then sends the video of it back to him. He includes an olfactory data packet as well.

Nines sends him back a picture of Detective Reed's middle finger.

Connor has to dig deep into the sense of ethics he's been carefully trying to cultivate in order to resist replying with a dick pic of Hank. In the end, he's a little ashamed to admit to himself it's more his own jealous possessiveness than concern for his boyfriend's privacy that stops him.

Instead, he takes the initiative and blocks Nines before the asshole can block him back again. Dr. Giuliano told him sometimes self-care is blocking your family on social media, so the action is therapist-approved.

And he just got a very important text from Hank asking if he'd like to make that raspberry tart this morning, so his schedule is far too busy to talk to his annoying little brother today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray, we staggered over that finish line together!! I think 25 is a nice good number to end on, and I really love the feeling of wrapping this up with Hank finally ready to bake his tart <3
> 
> another major reason to stop this now and have a pause before writing the next fic for them: this HankCon timeline is way ahead of the Reed900 timeline for their series that I'm writing. so if I keep going for the events I have planned that happen after this chapter, I'd spoil a lot of cool plot stuff for my other fic series. so I think I'm going to put this series on pause for a while to let the other one catch up so the timelines are closer together and make more sense
> 
> when I do get back to this series though! the next fic is going to focus a lot more on Connor and how he learns to acknowledge, confront, and cope with his own issues, since I feel like this fic ended up being mostly about Hank's recovery. there's going to be a lot of good good stuff about Connor making friends, continuing to pester Nines, and convincing Hank it's ethical for him to be used as a good little cockwarmer. let Connor suck cock 2039!! but also like,, Very Serious Romance and Mental Health Recovery too I promise
> 
> (Connor, issuing a callout post about his dumb boyfriend Hank: some ppl? perform fellatio?? to COPE???)

**Author's Note:**

> psst, if you can't wait for nasty smut, you can also check out my RK900/Gavin fic, just be aware that their "relationship" is (obviously) nowhere near as happy and healthy as my headcanons for Hank/Connor. it is at least consensual though, they're just pissy assholes.


End file.
